


Petals on the River

by bamfbugboy, Zath



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, Blood and Violence, Earn Your Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Historical Divergence, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn, Western, World War I, but also says fuck you to historical inequality, likely contains historical inaccuracies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:17:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 161,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7394560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bamfbugboy/pseuds/bamfbugboy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zath/pseuds/Zath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanzo didn't know what to expect when he left Japan, but with his brother at this side, he would do anything to keep him safe. Even leave everything he knew, loved, and understood behind. Fleeing to California seemed like an extraordinarily outlandish idea, but his brother assured him that the southwest was a land of mystery, beauty, and romance--at least that's what his novels told him. He doesn't want to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life, so without hesitation, Genji closes his eyes before the train station's map, points, and tells his brother that's their destination. A little town out in the desert, away from the lights and busy streets of Los Angeles, where they'll start anew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Weight of History

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】Petals on the River 河上的花瓣](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8324329) by [Rrkitosh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrkitosh/pseuds/Rrkitosh)



> This is my first time posting on AO3, and this is all thanks to my friend Zath, who is helping me write the piece in addition to serving as my beta. I do not own these characters, Blizzard does, but I am hopelessly in love with the Overwatch universe.
> 
> I wanted to write a historical AU considering both Hanzo and McCree both sort of live in a world of nostalgia in different ways. Hanzo wears traditional clothing, lives in a very traditional Japanese home, and McCree thinks he's a god damn cowboy in the middle of the 21st Century (spoiler alert, he is the best cowboy). So I wanted to explore these two in an actual historical setting.
> 
> This story will take place in the 20th Century, post WWI. This is a world where Hanzo chooses to not kill his brother Genji, and instead they flee to America to start over when they are in their 20s. Gabriel and Jack served in the US military during WWI, Jesse owns a saloon/bar, Angela is the local town doctor, Jack becomes town sheriff and lives on a ranch with his husband Gabriel. Other Overwatch characters might pop up to fill in the town further, but I'm not sure yet. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, enjoy!

**PART ONE**

The train rumbles against the tracks as Hanzo Shimada stares out the window watching the flat desert landscape pass by. The early morning sun rises slowly in the East over the silhouette of tall mountain ridges cloaked in darkness. In his own boredom, he tries counting the number of strange horizontal plants he had seen littered across the plane until his brother Genji’s low snoring jostles him from his stupor. 

Hanzo read many books in his youth about the continent across the ocean, about a place of conflict and stubborn historical perseverance. Where the authors described how a man could make his own path, no matter his past. Where virtues such as freedom and happiness were long sought after dreams for even the lowest individuals of a class-based society. It all seemed so fanciful, so far out of reach. 

Genji, however, didn’t care much for the histories, even the history of Japan--unless the story involved a good battle, humor, or a forbidden romance. He read fiction, whatever he could get his hands on, and the stories found between those pages often made Hanzo scoff. 

Combined, the texts he and his brother read growing up while laying under sakura trees always seemed so far off, so out of reach when they lived in a world of complete order, filial piety, and the weight of legacy. For having read so many historical texts, Hanzo didn’t like history. It only filled him with indecision, regret, and shame.

Beside him, Genji shifts and lays his head against his brother’s shoulder. Hanzo folds his arms tighter across his chest. For his brother, he would carry any burden, any shame, and any form of dishonor thrust upon them for leaving Hanamura. He would carry the burden of disappointing their father and their ancestors, he would carry the burden of leaving their ancestral home and the spirits that laid dormant in their family’s shrine, abandoning centuries of meticulous care. Deep in his heart he always wished that history would forgive him for his decision to leave everything behind for Genji. 

Hanzo watches what he believes to be the same cactus he saw earlier pass by outside the window. The Californian desert looks so different, so foreign, so otherworldly. During the first part of their journey from Los Angeles, Hanzo could barely pull Genji away from the window to look out at the landscape. He was almost ashamed to admit his younger brother acted and behaved like a damn tourist, but in reality this was the first time Genji had left the stone walls that surrounded their ancestral home. Genji had become entranced in the romance of a world with no boundaries unlike the world they had grown up in. He can’t blame his brother for being excited, even if it’s excitement over the unknown. 

Hanzo sighs as yet another cluster of cacti litter the landscape. He presses his head against the window, digs into his pocket, and retrieves the train ticket. A one way trip. Los Angeles to Twenty Nine Palms. Hanzo doesn’t know why that specific number, he doesn’t know why any one person could name a town something as ridiculous as that, but it was the place Genji chose on the map they saw at the train station. He almost wishes his brother had kept his eyes open as he picked the town where they were going to start over in America. 

The sun appears on the eastern horizon and early morning light filters through the dirty window. The sunlight cascades over the desert valley, shading the dirt and rock and flora with shades of purple and orange. Hanzo always loved watching the sunrise over Hanamura, when the sun would peer through the cherry blossoms and give them an ethereal, heavenly glow. If there could only be one part of Japan he would truly miss, it was the sakura. The beautiful flower taught Hanzo the most important lesson of all: that life was precious, fleeting, and even when difficult times fell upon him like the dead of winter, spring (and joy) would return again.

There would be no going back for either of them. Not so long as his brother’s life remained threatened by the elders of the Shimada clan. Perhaps they could find happiness after all in America, on a different shore. Genji’s endless optimism seemed to think so.

“Brother.”

Hanzo glances to his left to Genji, who has not opened his eyes, but has begun to wake up. 

“Do you think we will meet a real life cowboy?”

“Perhaps,” Hanzo replies softly.

For Genji’s sake, he hopes they’re everything like the stories he read as a boy and more. He wants the West to be as wild and as uncharted and as romantic as the younger man believes it to be, with all the grit and grime and mystery the novels emulated. He wants the truth to be as spectacular as the legend. 

They still have another hour before they pull into the station. His eyes fall closed as the scenery repeats itself once more. He recalls a line from one of Genji’s notorious harlequin novels he was forced to read in order to ensure his brother kept smiling, 

_This is the West, sir. When the legend becomes fact...print the legend._


	2. The High Noon Saloon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse McCree and Sheriff Morrison talk about the bar brawl that took place the previous night at The High Noon Saloon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if you live in Twenty Nine Palms. I don't live there, but I have driven through it before.

“Isn’t it a little early to be drinking whiskey, Jesse?”

From behind the counter, Jesse continues pouring himself a glass, shrugs, and glances up at Sheriff Morrison with a broad smirk. 

“I’m trying out the latest batch I brewed out back. You really think I’m just going to let my good’n’fine customers try out a drink I’m not willing to try myself?” Jesse raises the shot glass in a toast. “Besides, it’s high noon somewhere in the world.”

Morrison rolls his eyes and watches him drink it all in one long gulp. Jesse makes a face and shakes his head. 

“Ho boy, I mighta used a little too much moonshine. You want to try some yourself?”

“No thanks. Still have a long day ahead of me, and from the reaction I saw from your drink, it sounds like it could still use some work.” 

“Alright. If ya say so yourself. It kicks a bit in the back of the throat but it’s got a great bit of personality to it. Anyways, you ain’t here to talk about all that. What can I do ya for, Sheriff?”

“Just checking in to see how everything’s going since last night.” 

“You mean Miss Ziegler’s just checkin’ in to see how everything’s going since last night.”

Morrison sighs. “It’s one in the same. She’s busy taking care of all the folks who managed to get caught up in the brawl. She wanted me to send her extreme disapproval and her utmost concern for your safety.”

Jesse chuckles to himself. He picks up his rag and another washed glass to start drying it off. His split lip no longer aches and the cut along his forehead only stings when he moves his brows, but other than that, he’s right as rain compared to the other guys. 

“I’m also interested in knowing what caused the commotion. I saw ten guys in Angela’s waiting room, half of them had black eyes and the other half needed more than stitches.” He gestures offhandedly around the saloon. “Your place looks like a twister ran through it.” 

“Heh. Well, you could say a man made twister sorta did.” 

“I’m being serious here, McCree.”

“Yeah, I figure. Why don’t you go’n ask your buddy, Reyes?”

Jesse knows the town sheriff doesn’t like being put on the spot. He raises the glass closer to his eyes to try and get a better look at the troublesome spec that’s giving him and the rag extra pause. He peers over the rim and sees Jack Morrison looking glum. Maybe his comment hit further below the belt than he hoped. Just as he opens his mouth to apologize, Jack beats him to it. 

“Yeah I guess I’ll take a glass of whiskey, if you don’t mind. Not that shit you’re experimenting with. Something you actually imported.” 

Jesse nods and doesn’t question the good sheriff any further.

“Couple of guys from the Los Muertos Gang came in here and started giving some of the other patrons trouble. They were causin’ a mighty bad ruckus, but for awhile they just kept it all verbal. Nothing real bad, just mighty irritating. Then they started harassing some of the nice fine ladies, that sweet little English gal and her spider lovin’ belle, and I was about to whip out Peacekeeper and have a dandy good ole time, when Reyes decided he wasn’t interested any longer in a bunch of young punks ruinin’ his evenin’ drink. So I let him have his fun to an extent. He wasn’t playin’ for keeps like those kids were I’m afraid. They pulled their guns on him, so I had to level the playin’ field. You understand. Ain’t nobody dead so I reckon no need to fuss Sheriff.” 

“Good. Glad you kept it that way.” 

Jesse knows there’s the implication of _Thanks for looking out for him when I couldn’t_ in those words. 

“No problem. I sure as hell am no saint but I don’t take kindly to people who bully others.” He grins, “Especially not in my fine establishment. People come here cause they want a drink and a good time. Reckon I oughtta keep it that way.”

Jack nods. He finishes his drink and stands. He wipes his mouth on the back of his white sleeve and his fingers linger on the counter, drumming absently.

“Make sure you go and get yourself looked at by Angela. You’re starting to bleed through.” 

Jesse follows Jack’s glance and sees the small red stain beginning to spread from his upper forearm through the blue and white gingham. He chuckles and shrugs. “She’s pretty damn busy already, and I’m a tough cowpoke, but if it’ll ease your mind, I’ll close up shop and visit.”

“You better, or I’ll drag you there myself.”

Jesse laughs out loud so hard he clutches at his stomach and winces. “Oh really, old man? I’d like to see you try.” 

Jack picks up his hat off of the counter and places it back onto his head. He stares at McCree dead in the eyes expectantly and the other man’s goofy smile falls.

“Alright, alright, I’m goin’.”

Jesse places the cleaned glasses onto the other counter behind him, folds the rag, and comes out from behind the bar. He follows after Sheriff Morrison to the saloon’s swinging paneled doors and makes sure to pick up his stetson and serape. 

Once outside, he squints in the bright morning sunshine. The gentle breeze rustles his light serape, and he steps out onto the main town road with his head held high.

“Storm’s comin’, I think. I smell rain.” He pulls out his rolled cigar and puts it between his teeth.

“Then you better hurry over to Doctor Ziegler’s, before you get caught in it.” 

“Yeesh. You’re grouchy this mornin’. Your buddy too tired last night to give you a ride?” 

Jack’s head sharply turns, and Jesse almost jumps out of his skin. Jack glares knives into his skull, but there’s a noticeable hint of rouge hidden in the shade of his wide brimmed hat. Jesse loves being right. He lights his cigar and inhales deeply.

“Don’t worry, give him a day or two and he’ll be back in the saddle.” 

Jack shakes his head and turns on his spurred heels to leave. He shoves his hands into his pockets and heads towards the town jail. “Blood’s starting to slide down your arm, McCree. Get moving. I’d _hate_ for you to bleed to death in front of your own bar.” 

Jesse looks down and he is in fact starting to drip little droplets of blood onto the dusty road. He tips his hat and smirks to himself with his cigar in his teeth. He can’t help but easily imagine that the town’s sheriff was as much of a hardass in the army as he was around town. 

He’s in no rush to the nice Swiss doctor’s office at the end of the town’s main road near the train station. He doesn’t have the pleasure of getting out of the saloon much these days since going legit and quitting the Deadlock Gang. He’s all the more happy for it, he’s exponentially increased his own lifespan just by cutting that part of his life out, but he misses the days where him and the other boys would ride out on horseback in the wasteland to loot and plunder and escort their illegal cargo to the next few towns over. He misses the sense of adventure, the adrenaline that used to course through his veins after a good heist, but he certainly doesn’t miss the amount of violence and killing that came along with it. He just misses the way it felt to look out onto the horizon, standin’ in the foothills staring down into the beauty of the Coachella Valley as the sun rose in the East. 

While Jesse knows his hands will never be clean from the blood he has spillled, at least he knows each time he draws _Peacemaker_ now it’s for his own brand of justice and not for personal profit and gain. He’s never gonna become a bona fide saint or anything of the like, but he wants to at least do right by himself and the friendly folk of Twenty Nine Palms.

His leather boots kick up dust as he makes his way downtown. The sun boils down on him, and he builds up a sweat quickly, but he doesn’t mind. The town’s busy, bustling about, and maybe they’re all in a hurry cause they can sense it too. There’s a storm comin’, and no one wants to get caught in it more than Jesse McCree.


	3. The Train to Nowhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The train pulls in, and Hanzo and Genji take their first steps into exploring their new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only speak English and a little French, so please feel free to correct me on any Spanish, German, and Japanese I may end up using in the duration of this piece.

When the train pulls into Twenty Nine Palms station, the knots in Hanzo’s stomach return. The train ride allowed his mind to wander as he stared out the window and listened to his brother’s even breathing. He could put off the anxieties that inevitably came with traveling and settling down somewhere new. He didn’t want to think about the details of their journey, but he certainly didn’t want Genji to worry either. 

There’s the question of money and income. While Hanzo made sure to bring enough money to secure their transport by boat across the Pacific, the train from Los Angeles, their room and board, their food, eventually it all would run out unless Hanzo acquires a job of some sort. The American dream isn’t served on a platter for all those who enter the country’s borders, which Genji still doesn’t seem to understand fully. 

Nonetheless, Hanzo lets his brother’s wide eyed enthusiasm remain. He shoulders the burdens alone, and thus, the knots return. 

Genji stands from the compartment’s bench and reaches up to the shelf to retrieve their belongings. Two cases that held their respective preferred weapons, family heirlooms that neither could part with. Genji’s swords and Hanzo’s bow and quiver. Hanzo hopes they would never have reason to use them, but if Genji’s stories held any grain of truth, the West was wild and dangerous and rife with outlaws eager to steal from caravans. 

They traveled lightly besides the two cases. Their escape happened in the dead of night following the order for Hanzo and Genji to duel within Clan Shimada’s innermost dojo. Hanzo insisted they pack with practicality in mind, with only one bag of clothing, and a few spare trinkets that Genji insisted they could not leave behind. This included a gift from their late mother, an intricately painted statuette of two swirling dragons she had made for them before her passing. 

“I can’t believe we’re finally here!” Genji says with overwhelming excitement as they finally step off of the train onto the platform. His smile lights up his pale face, and to Hanzo, he appears so young and so pleased to be in the middle of nowhere. 

And nowhere sums up Twenty Nine Palms to Hanzo. 

A sinking feeling settles in the older Shimada brother’s stomach. He almost wishes they had chosen to stay in Los Angeles, even if it’s urban landscape contrasted drastically with Hanamura. The train station stands at the edge of town, but town only seems to consist of one main road with wooden buildings on either side. The wind blows through Hanzo’s short pony tail and over his light clothes. He surveys the setting before him, and it’s bleaker than he imagined. 

The sun burns hot and heavy down upon them like a suffocating vice. The land glows brightly white beneath the sun’s blinding rays, and Hanzo has to squint before his eyes adjust. Hanzo’s pale skin already feels flush from the heat and he feels sweat form on his brow and it slides down his neck underneath his kyudo-gi. There’s nothing but dust and dirt and shabby looking worn wooden buildings that to him might as well be shacks. None of it compares to the beauty that was his home in Hanamura. Nothing in America will ever compare.

“Where are the twenty-nine palms?”

Hanzo blinks and turns his head to look at his brother Genji, whose brows are pursed in confusion. 

“Hm?”

“This town is called Twenty Nine Palms. There are no palm trees here.” 

Hanzo rolls his eyes and sighs, and he doesn’t bother dignifying that statement with a response. He grips the handle of his suitcase and wonders how a silly American town’s name could upset Genji this much compared to the dismal sight before them. 

Hanzo doesn’t expect his brother to run up to the nearest stranger he sees and ask the same question.

“Excuse me? Sir? Hello?”

The man wears too much clothing for this heat, surely, and Hanzo notes that he looks like one of the men seen on the covers of Genji’s ridiculous western novels. He stops walking, turns, and looks to Genji.

“Howdy there pardner, what can I do ya for?”

“Yes, hello there pardner!" 

Hanzo can’t help but grimace and cringe. He’s ready to purchase a ticket back to Los Angeles and a boat ride back to Japan to escape the amount of second-hand embarrassment he’s feeling.

“I wanted to know where the twenty-nine palm trees were.” 

The stranger looks absolutely flummoxed beneath his wide-brimmed hat. Hanzo steps forward, ashamed of his brothers intrusion and his disrespectful question, and he grabs Genji’s sleeve. 

“Genji,” he scolds. “I apologize, sir, we--”

And then the man wearing the wide-brimmed hat bursts into laughter so hard he doubles over, clutching at this stomach.

Hanzo stares at the man in complete horror and his face flushes in embarrassment. He silently curses his brother’s inept lack of manners for this entire situation. He opens his mouth to speak, but the other man recovers and stands up straight. 

“Hot damn I think you’re the first person to ever ask that question out loud in the history of this entire town, and frankly, I think we’ve all been askin’ ourselves that same damn question too.” 

The man tips his hat up and looks at them both with a cheeky grin, a cigarillo between his teeth, and a scruffy, unkempt beard. His eyes wander away from Genji to Hanzo, and his cigarillo slackens downward. He blinks beneath his hat and his eyes widen. 

Hanzo meets his gaze and finds himself taken aback by the American’s dumbfounded shock. He holds it for several moments and then his eyes fall downcast in his own embarrassment. The entire situation only continues to grow more and more awkward. 

The other man grabs at his cigar and holds it between his fingers. He clears his throat and laughs sheepishly. “You’re both not from round here are ya?” He says eyeing Hanzo’s state of dress with an offhand gesture.

“No, we are from Japan!”

Hanzo sharply turns his attention to his brother beside him. “Genji!”

“Oh come now, brother, surely there is nothing wrong with sharing a simple fact. You did not even bother to change your state of dress since we arrived in America. It is obvious we are foreigners.”

Hanzo scoffs and grumbles under his breath. While Genji was all too eager to change into western attire while they waited in Tokyo for the next ship headed towards Los Angeles, California arrived, Hanzo was not as willing to let go of his traditional clothing. 

“We are travelers, yes,” Hanzo concedes.

“What brings you two all the way out here? Little far away from the coast line. And we ain’t exactly a tourist attraction. Probably cause we ain’t got the palms. Palm Springs, a couple towns over, they got ‘em though.”

Genji laughs and smiles at the joke as if it’s the funniest thing he has ever heard in the entirety of his life, and Hanzo deadpans.

“My brother and I are looking to settle down,” Genji explains, and Hanzo wishes he wouldn’t. “We have traveled far, and we would like to, as Americans say, ‘find someplace to hang our boots up.’” 

The other man grins. “Well you came to the best place in all of California, friends.” He pulls off his hat and holds it to his chest. He extends a hand. “Name’s Jesse McCree. I run a nice little ole saloon just up the road. I know Twenty Nine Palm’s small and it ain’t exactly quaint, but the people here are nice and they’ll love the little bit of excitement that’s just made its way to town. Maybe you two should stop by for a drink and some grub--on me--as a welcomin’ gift. It’s sure swelterin’ out here, and I’d like to apologize on behalf of the blazin’ hot California sun.” 

Genji eagerly takes the offered hand and shakes it. “My name is Genji, and this is my older brother Hanzo.” 

When Genji and McCree’s hands let go, McCree extends his hand to Hanzo as well. Hanzo stares down at it and doesn’t reciprocate. Genji nudges Hanzo in the ribs painfully. He sighs and takes the accepted hand. McCree’s grin softens into a sheepish smile. 

“Genji. Hanzo. Nice to meet you both. You two’ll love it here. This town’s usually nice and quiet, but don’t you worry, we can be just as loud and rowdy as them folks down in Palm Springs or Yucca, I assure you. We...”

Hanzo listens only partially to Jesse McCree, and his brows purse when a splash of red catches his attention at the base of McCree’s rolled up sleeve. His frown deepens and he interrupts McCree mid sentence. 

“You are bleeding…” 

“...and if you--huh? What?”

“Your arm.” 

McCree pulls at his serape and sees the blood stain spreading on his forearm above the rolled up cuffs. He glances back to the two brothers and laughs it off. 

“Oh that? That’s nothin. Don’t worry about little ole me. I’m made of pretty tough stuff.” 

“Did you earn that from a bar fight?” Genji asks, and Hanzo cringes. 

“Why, I actually did as a matter of fact. My friend and I got into a bit of a showdown last night at the saloon. Some bad men were tryin’ to harrass good payin’ customers, cat-callin’ at some mighty fine gals if I do say so myself, and a fight broke out. Now these guys, they’re from the local branch of Los Muertos gang that’re straight outta Mexico, and they don’t back down easy. Chairs were flyin’ all over the place, bottles got broke, some of ‘em even made shivs outta chair legs. Then they drew their guns, and it was like it was high noon right in the middle of my god damn bar. I couldn’t have that, so me and my buddy, we took ‘em out and sent ‘em flyin’ out the swingin’ doors before they could even land more’n a couple ‘o shots.”

Genji stands completely transfixed and mesmerized by the story. His eyes are wide in excitement and appreciation for something Hanzo can’t understand. Hanzo figures a large amount of the story has been embellished for the waiting, eager audience that stands before him in his younger brother. Hanzo knows it’s probably a bunch of shit. 

“Wow, you are quite the outlaw, Mister McCree,” Genji says with a smile.

“Please, call me Jesse, you two. Mister McCree’s my old man. And I ain’t much of an outlaw anymore, but boy could I go on and on and on with stories about when I used to be. Maybe I’ll tell you some back at my bar.” 

“Your arm,” Hanzo insists sternly. “Is there no local doctor here?” 

“Oh, there is. She’s just kind of busy and kind of a little pissed off at me last we met.”

To Hanzo’s dismay, Genji immediately perks up. “She?”

“Oh yes sirree, Miss Angela Ziegler. She’s our humble town’s doctor and she’s a beautiful, kind lady, and we’re sure lucky to be in her care.” McCree raises a hand to scratch his beard. “Hey, you know, if you two are plannin’ on stayin’ for awhile, you should probably be introduced to everyone. Everyone knows everyone here, and I’m sure they’ll want to get to know you two as well. You want me to show you guys around town?”

“We’d love that, Jesse!” 

Hanzo scowls. It’s clear as day that Genji did not listen to him during their conversation aboard the ship that brought them to America. He specifically said over and over that they needed to maintain a low profile in case the elders thought to send bounty hunters after them. Hanzo didn’t want to be pessimistic or cynical, but they couldn’t trust anyone. Their lives are at stake, but Genji seems incapable of fully understanding the gravity of the situation. 

On the other hand, Hanzo raises no protest. He knows that if this is to be there final stop of their journey, at least for now, then perhaps it best to learn the names and faces of the other citizens of Twenty Nine Palms. 

“Right, Hanzo?”

He nods without looking towards his brother. “Very well. We accept your offer for a tour. We will be needing room and board. I can pay.” 

“There’s an inn, don’t you worry, run by Miss Oxton, and she’ll help situate you both into a comfy-cozy room. She’s not from around here either, but she’s a friendly gal, she’ll help you two out no problem, I can guarantee that. She’ll talk your ears off though, so, word to the wise. Don’t get into a conversation with her if you’re havin’ some place to be.” 

Doctor Ziegler’s medical practice isn’t far from the train station. Hanzo wouldn’t have known it was the town’s only clinic if not for the small wooden cross sign hanging above the porch. Otherwise, it looks like someone’s residence, with the many potted flowers outside and the swinging bench seat by the front window.

The creaky wooden door opens right as McCree’s about to open it. Out comes an angry looking man with warm, brown skin, curly dark hair, brown eyes, and a scratchy looking beard. He glares at McCree and then looks to the two men behind him.

“Playing tour guide, I see.” 

“Yeah. I sure am. Twenty Nine Palms’s got some new guests in town, and I’m takin’ ‘em around to see all the sights. Gotta make up for the lack of palm trees after all, y’know what I mean?”

The other man snorts and fixes his black shirt’s sleeves, rolling them up to the elbow. The shirt looks a size too small on him, and the top two buttons are open, revealing tuffs of hair beneath. His thick muscles bulge in his forearms and legs. 

“You’re bleeding.” 

“Yeah. Guess I am. Was tellin’ these two about what happened, actually. Anyways,” McCree drawls, “this here’s Gabriel Reyes. He’s a rancher around these parts, and you’ll often see him hangin’ on the arm of our Sheriff--”

“God damn it, McCree--”

“--or you’ll find him strummin’ that guitar of his in my bar. When he’s not beatin’ up bad guys to a pulp, that is.” McCree leans in close to Genji and Hanzo and murmurs, “He’s a little shy still about bein’ married to the town’s sheriff.” 

Gabriel sighs and shakes his head. “You done?” 

“Not in the slightest, but I guess that description’ll have to do for now.” McCree gestures to his two companions. “And these two are Hanzo and Genji. Travelers from Japan.”

“So what are you doing? Taking them to Ziegler to what, have them watch you get stitches?”

“Well it’s not like I can go and show them our twenty-nine palms…” 

Gabriel runs a hand over his face while Genji laughs quietly to himself. 

“Well Ziegler’s pretty fucking pissed about last night. Kind of like how I am. You’re lucky you’ve got company or I’d beat your ass some more for the shit you pulled, cabron.” 

“Woah now, calm down there. Let’s not be too hasty.” 

“I just had three bullets pulled out of me.”

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry for pissing off those Los Muertos kids. I didn’t expect them to pull a gun on us.” 

“Yeah, I bet you’re sorry.” 

“Cross my heart, Reyes. Now go on, Jack’s been lookin’ for you all mornin, and I’d hate for you to keep his pretty little blonde head waitin’ a minute more. I know he’s worried sick.”

“Fuck off, McCree.” Gabriel shoves past McCree and heads down the road. 

Hanzo purses his brows. “You are going to let him talk to you like that?” 

“You kiddin’ me? That was probably the most affectionate thing he’s said to me all week. Reyes is like that. He’s a cranky sonofabitch but he knows he’s off to get another earful from his husband.”

Americans confuse Hanzo. How could anyone talk to each other so… crudely?


	4. Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's high noon at the doctor's clinic.

Jesse McCree opens the creaky door to find four young men sitting in the small waiting area of Doctor Ziegler’s low-cost clinic. All four pairs of eyes turn to him, and Jesse suddenly regrets deciding to come so shortly after the bar brawl last night, injuries be damned. He hoped Angela would have already finished up with these punks. 

“Well, lookee here, boys,” the tallest, bulkiest man of the group says with a wicked grin plastered across his skull tattooed face. “Jesse Fucking McCree decides to show his face again around us.” He chuckles in a condescending manner. “I guess we ought to hand it to you, pendejo, we thought you’d keep your distance. Looks like you’ve got some balls after all.” 

Jesse McCree takes off his hat and serape and hangs them on the little clothing hooks by the door. He closes his eyes, cracks his knuckles and his neck, and then scans the room. Alejandro Comenzara, kingpin of the Joshua Tree branch of Los Muertos thugs, and his three lieutenants, all younger men (perhaps no older than twenty), who McCree and Reyes made sure were given their fair share of bruises, black eyes, and bullet holes. 

“Your pal Reyes ran off with his tail between his legs after the Swiss looked him over. You gonna turn and do the same, McCree?” 

“‘Scuse me, who do you think you’re talkin’ to?”

Alejandro leans back in the wooden chair and folds his good arm behind his head. The other lays limp in his lap. McCree had made sure that his shooting arm was good and broken in several places last night. His vibrantly painted face, perhaps, would be intimidating to those unfamiliar with people who served in this gang. McCree knows better. He knows they’re a bunch of two-bit gangsters trying to scare the locals into submission and take back land and resources from the Black Talon Gang, who were beginning to hold power over the Coachella and Yucca Valleys. 

“Looks like I’m talkin’ to Jesse McCree, glorified tour guide.” Alejandro smirks. “You pick up a couple of strays? New cannon fodder for your cute little band of misfits? You look like you’re formin’ a circus troupe with these two. Hope they don’t mind walking the tight rope for you. You’re the sort to leave someone hanging.” 

The arrogance drops from McCree’s features while the other Los Muertos grunts laugh and howler to themselves. Behind him, he hears Genji murmur something to his older brother. His hands clench into fists and the bullet in his forearm stings from the increased pressure. His shoulders tense and his heart thuds in his chest. It takes all of his self-control to pull himself together to keep a cool head. 

McCree reaches into his pocket and retrieves his pack of cigarillos. He stamped out his previous one just outside Ziegler’s office, but he needs another one. He takes one out and lights it with all eyes focused on him. 

“You know, me and the other boys ran into some of your old amigos out on Highway Forty. Looked like they were haulin’ some pistols and goods out to the Mojave. We were curious where they were headed. Nevada? Arizona? We tried askin’ them nicely, but they weren’t too keen on spillin’ the beans. Plenty eager to spill their guts out, though. Maybe you’ve got an idea of where they were headed?”

McCree draws his pistol before Alejandro or any of the other Los Muertos lieutenants have a chance to react. He shoots Alejandro in the foot, and he screams out in pain and curls in upon himself. 

“Qué chingados?!” He bellows. He groans and gestures wildly with his legs. “The fuck you boys doin’?” He yells at his crew, “Shoot this mother-fucker already!”

It’s about to turn into a goddamn high noon blowout in the middle of the waiting room, when the door to the exam room opens wide, with a downright furious Swiss woman standing in the frame. 

“What is going on in here?! I am trying to remove bullets and I cannot focus with all of this nonsense!” 

The blonde woman’s eyes scan the room, and it’s a scene frozen in time. Four men with their guns drawn, one pointed at the Los Muertos thugs, and the rest pointed at none other than Jesse McCree. Her gaze falls to the groaning, grimacing man hissing through his teeth. There’s already a small puddle of blood at the base of the chair.

“Scheisse,” she sighs. She walks into the middle of the fray and helps the Los Muertos kingpin onto his feet, and he whimpers as he is unable to put weight on the injured foot. “Take this ridiculous squabble outside if you cannot behave. Do not even contemplate doing what you did in your bar in my clinic, Jesse McCree.”

Jesse holds up his hands in surrender. He peers at the other Los Muertos boys, and they follow suit. Everyone holsters their guns, and the three other lieutenants sit back down. 

“Sorry Doc, we’ll keep it as neutral as Switzerland here, promise.”

Doctor Ziegler stops before Jesse and takes his forearm into her free hand. She sees the large splatter of blood stained into his flannel gingham shirt. She sighs again and shakes her head. “Wait in here. You will be next.” 

The other Los Muertos men stand up again in protest, exclaiming that they’ve been waiting all night to be seen. When Ziegler turns her head and glares back at them, they fall silent and slump back into their chairs, muttering to themselves. 

“If you’ve got a spare pair of sterile tweezers handy, Doc, I can pull it out myself.” 

Ziegler raises her eyes to meet Jesse’s, and she chews on the idea for just a moment. Her frown remains but the woman nods. 

“Come in, I have an extra set.”

Jesse looks over his shoulder to Hanzo and Genji, who have night and day expressions on their face. Hanzo looks horrified at what he’s just witnessed, and Genji looks like it’s goddamn Christmas morning. 

“You mind if I bring those two along with me? Might need a pair of steady hands if your pretty fingers are otherwise occupied rummaging around in this idiot.” 

“Very well, but please, no more guns, no more shooting.” 

“Scout’s honor, ma’am.” 

McCree follows after Angela, who lugs Alejandro with her into the examination room, where there is already a man sitting on the table half-bandaged. 

“Hey, boss, what the fuck happened to you?”

Alejandro grunts and points over at McCree with a scowl. 

“Mr. Kane, if you wouldn’t mind?” 

The other Los Muertos lieutenant slides off of the table and helps his boss carefully onto the medical table. Alejandro moans in pain and lays back against the small pillow. 

“Fucking McCree,” he mutters. 

“What was that?” Angela snaps. “Behave, or I’ll make sure to wrap your bandage extra tight..”

McCree smirks. He’s always loved Angela’s fire. He helps himself to rummaging around in the cupboards looking for the spare set of medical tweezers, until Angela stops him. 

“Please don’t. Let me find it for you. Go sit down at the desk.” 

McCree nods and goes to sit down at her desk with a humph. He should have known better than to try to search through Doctor Ziegler’s medicine cabinets, especially with the morning she’s had. They all came down from the saloon after Lena and Amelie insisted everyone go see Doctor Ziegler to look at their wounds. Angela hasn’t changed from her cream colored blouse and her wine colored skirt that fell down to her ankles. Her pulled back blonde hair has come loose over the hours of work. She looks like she could use a couple nights of rest after the ordeal McCree, Reyes, and the Los Muertos thugs have put her through. 

He starts unbuttoning his button-up shirt and looks to his company, who haven’t moved from standing near the doorway. Genji stands completely in awe of Miss Doctor Ziegler, and McCree knows the sure-fire look of a man who’s just seen a real-life angel. Hanzo, however, looks downright uncomfortable with all the medical equipment around and the cramped space. 

“Well c’mon now. Don’t be a stranger. I’m gonna need whichever one of you’s got steadier hands to hold the pliers.”

Genji doesn’t respond, and instead moves to place his case onto the ground. He stands and watches Doctor Ziegler put on her thin metal rimmed glasses and begin to work. Hanzo indignantly watches his brother blatantly moon over the pretty Swiss woman, and then he turns his attention to McCree when he realizes that he’s the only person remaining to help the American. 

“If you wouldn’t mind helping a fella out?”

Hanzo sighs and walks over to join McCree at Doctor Ziegler’s desk. He sets down his own pack onto the ground. He doesn’t remove the sash like sling from across his chest. He pulls up a chair. He takes the offered pliers and looks at the bare-chested American, and McCree can’t help but flush and puff out his hairy chest. 

“Eyes up here, Hanzo. That bullet’s startin’ to hurt mighty bad.” 

Hanzo blinks and his lips part. McCree can tell the other man doesn’t like being accused of staring. 

“Alright, so all I’m gonna need you to do is keep the puncture hole open while I fish in there for that piece of lead. You’re not gonna get all squeamish and pass out on me, are you?”

“Of course not.” 

“Ok. Good to know.” McCree reaches up and starts to unravel the makeshift cloth he used last night to stop the bleeding, which has bled through considerably. He almost regrets not coming to Doctor Ziegler sooner, given how bad it’s gotten. 

“McCree, make sure you sterilize all of the tools and the area,” Angela says without looking up from her own patient. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” McCree gestures for Hanzo to grab the metal canteen of cleaning alcohol and fresh gauze. “If ya wouldn’t mind?”

Hanzo doesn’t need further guidance. He takes the tray of tools and cleans off each metal instrument before returning to McCree. He pulls up a chair and he rests at a comfortable eye level to the wound in question festering on McCree’s forearm. He takes the pliers and spreads open the nasty puncture with the steady hands that McCree needed.

McCree starts to fish into the wound while putting on a strong face, even though it’s hurts like a rattlesnake bite. He grits his teeth and clenches his jaw, but beside him, Hanzo’s a doll and doesn’t flinch or turn away. He can appreciate a man who’s not afraid of a little sticky blood on his hands. 

“Doctor Ziegler, is it?” They hear Genji say, and McCree looks up to see the younger brother standing near the young woman as she carefully cleans the gaping hole in Alejandro’s foot. “You have such steady fingers.” 

“Thank you, Mr…?”

“Genji, please call me Genji. My brother Hanzo and I are new to town. We just arrived on the morning train after our long journey from Japan.” 

“Oh, well Willkommen!” She smiles brightly. “I do believe you and your brother have chosen a fine town to visit, do not let today’s matters let you think otherwise.” 

“Of course, I would never. These men are quite lucky to have such a fine doctor here to help them recover.” 

“Many of the people who live here are from all over the world. We have an English innkeeper, a French school headmistress, a blacksmith from Sweden, a mother and daughter from Egypt, and my dear friend Reinhardt from Germany. Our sheriff is from Indiana, and McCree whom you have met is from New Mexico. I think the only person who comes from this state is Mister Reyes.” 

“How rather multicultural and fascinating.” Genji leans against the wall of the exam room and purses his brows in curiosity, “This Reinhardt, is he your husband?”

“Oh, gosh! Nein!” She laughs heartily and shakes her head. “No, we are simply dear friends.”

McCree winces. “Hey there, you mind not spreadin’ this here wound that wide?” He mutters to Hanzo. He cocks his head to the side and sees Hanzo’s face stricken with irritation. He looks back to Genji and Angela, who’s laughing at something funny Genji must’ve said when he wasn’t paying attention. 

“Let me do this,” Hanzo growls and takes the tweezers from McCree’s rough hand. “You’re only making it worse.” 

“I’m not sure I wanna let you do that, with that look on your face.”

“And what look is that?”

McCree shakes his head and laughs. “Like you’re about to snap those tweezers in half and my arm along with ‘em.” 

Hanzo mutters under his breath in what sounds like Japanese and then recollects himself. 

McCree’s not above admitting when he’s wrong, cause Hanzo immediately has the better angle to fish out the bullet with ease instead of diggin’ through his muscle tissue prayin’ he gets lucky. He takes the moment of peace to study Hanzo’s features. His eyes look darker now that they’re indoors and out of the sun, but he’s still sweatin’ even with Angela’s overhead fan doing it’s best to keep up with the rising summer heat. He has a little patch of dark stubble on his jaw to match his pulled up, inky black hair. There’s only one loose strand Hanzo didn’t catch with his yellow colored ribbon, and it frames his face. The one thing McCree can’t understand is the perpetual frown he’s seen on Hanzo’s face where Genji seemed all too eager to smile and laugh. He wonders idly what Hanzo must have gone through and if it had anything to do with why both brothers were so far away from home. 

Hanzo drops the bloodied bullet onto the medical tray and then applies pressure onto the wound with a fresh cloth. McCree swallows his pain down like a lumpy pill and holds it together despite how much it aches. Hanzo sterilizes the area once more, and he reaches down for the medical needle and thread to begin giving McCree stitches.

“Shit, you make that look easy. Where’d you learn to patch someone up?” McCree asks as he looks down at Hanzo, who carefully sews flesh back together. 

At first Hanzo doesn’t respond, and McCree wonders if he just lit the fuse of a hundred sticks of dynamite. He drums his fingers against his knee and chews on whether or not he should say something, until Hanzo breaks their silence.

“...Our mother.” 

Hanzo blinks, and McCree knows that look well. Hanzo didn’t mean to say that, but he did anyways. 

“Oh yeah?” McCree replies calmly, trying his best to hide his overabundance of curiosity, “Don’t tell me you or Genji had lead in ya, ever.”

“No,” Hanzo sighs pensively. “But she was required to take care of our father.”

“Hm, that’s nice of her.” McCree says quietly now awfully curious why one would refer to their ma lookin’ after their pa as a requirement. “I gotta admit I’m pretty damn lucky you showed up when you did, cause your steady hands on me, Hanzo, are really just what the doctor ordered.” McCree sheepishly laughs. “Kinda. Y’know what I mean.” 

Hanzo doesn’t raise his head, but McCree can see a faint hint of red spread across the shapely nose and sharp cheekbones. Hanzo starts to carefully bandage the wound once McCree’s been stitched up. 

Meanwhile, Angela finishes wrapping the injured foot at long last and sighs in relief. “Finally. You’re lucky, Mister Comenzara, that Mister McCree was courteous enough to only shoot you once and so cleanly. Any closer to your toes and I’m afraid you may have lost some. You will likely experience chronic pain.” 

“Yeah. I’m so grateful.” Alejandro snorts. “You done yet, lady? Can you hurry up and finish up with the other boys? I got shipments to deliver.” 

McCree knows exactly what he’s aimin’ to deliver, and he doesn’t like it just as much as Angela. He almost wishes she’d just have let him bleed out in her waitin’ room or poked around in the guy’s foot, but he knows the good doctor doesn’t let anyone die on her watch. Nor does she let anyone suffer. Doesn’t matter if they’re baby Jesus reborn or if they’re the Devil incarnate. Alejandro Comenzara functions as close to the Devil as he’ll ever meet in these parts. 

Genji steps in before the good doctor has a chance to reply. “You should be grateful that Doctor Ziegler was willing to help common criminals, and you should treat her with much more respect.”

The bulky man pulls his boot back on with a loud grunt and stands from the medical table. He looks at Genji and snorts. 

“Who are you again, perra?” 

Genji rushes forward and grabs the man by the collar of his shirt to yank him down. Everyone but McCree moves forward to stop yet another altercation from starting again. Hanzo grabs him by the shoulder, but Genji shrugs his brother off. 

“Genji!” Hanzo scolds. 

Genji lets go of the kingpin, reluctantly, and glares up at the taller man. 

“Yeah, you better heed your brother’s advice, kid. You don’t want to mess with the Los Muertos Gang unless you’re ready to take a one way trip to a grave I’d make you dig yourself.” 

Silence falls between the three men who stare at each other like it’s high noon on a dusty road. McCree notices Hanzo shift uncomfortably and reach to his shoulder where the sash he wears is tied into a knot. He raises a hand to cup his bearded chin. Now what could Hanzo have in there that he would go and reach for it in the middle of this standoff? 

“C’mon, get outta here Alejandro. You’re all patched up. Don’t harass Twenty Nine Palm’s only visitors.” 

The kingpin opens the door to the waiting room and slams it shut behind him. They all hear the man bark for the boys to get onto their feet cause they’re leavin’ this town. McCree smiles to himself. Good riddance. 

“Genji, what were you thinking?”

“I was doing the right thing, brother,” Genji says over his shoulder. He turns to face Hanzo and smiles arrogantly, like a man who knows he won the verbal duel. “That man had no place to insult Doctor Ziegler.” 

Angela stands from her chair and goes to her sink to remove her rubber gloves and to wash her hands. She dries them off and then runs a hand through her hair. She hunches over her sink and reaches up to rub her neck. Genji comes up behind her and smiles softly, and to McCree, it’s like somethin’ out of a god damn romance novel. 

“In fact, Miss Ziegler, please let me apologize on behalf of those barbaric men in your waiting room. They are hardly deserving of your mercy and your kindness. I admire your compassion in the face of such rudeness.” Genji takes Angela’s hand and kisses the back of it, unshaken by the clinical scent of the soap she used. “I have never met a woman from Switzerland before. Are all Swiss women as beautiful and as compassionate as you?”

Angela’s pale cheeks flush, and McCree’s eyes roll into the back of his head. “Oh, I don’t know about that…” 

“Genji…” 

McCree grins toothily and stands from his chair. He’s feelin’ better already with the lead outta him. 

“Alright, now, how’s about the four of us mosey on down to my saloon and have ourselves a nice bit of lunch. I’m starvin’ mighty bad, and I promised these two they’d get a nice hot meal as a welcome on the house.”

Angela folds her arms across her chest. She removes her glasses and they hang around her neck by a leather band. “I don’t know, I have work to do studying…” 

“Hey now, you’ve been workin’ pretty damn hard today already, Doc. You need to take a load off and let me treat you and Genji and Hanzo here to some grub. You can’t work on an empty stomach. I know those Los Muertos punks can make anyone lose their appetite, but I promise, once you get a whiff of what I’m gonna make, you’ll be salivatin’ like a dog in heat.” 

McCree doesn’t take no for an answer from Miss Ziegler. Genji and Hanzo follow them out of the clinic into the Californian sun. McCree puts on his stetson and his serape once more and smirks.

“I’m thinkin’ about grillin’ up a couple’a juicy steaks. You boys ever had a big piece of sirloin before? If not, you’re gonna love it. I’ll whip up a spicy bit of sauce that’ll roast your socks off.” 

“I don’t imagine anything could ever be as spicy as wasabi,” Genji says with a grin. 

“Wasabi? Can’t say I’ve ever had it.” McCree scratches his beard, “Is that some kinda sauce?”

McCree looks over his shoulder at Hanzo at just the opportune moment. He sees the man covering his face with his palm and shaking his head. 

Yeah, these two will do just fine here in Twenty Nine Palms.


	5. One Beer and One Cup of Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch time at the High Noon Saloon, where Hanzo and Genji meet the other strange denizens of Twenty Nine Palms.

If Hanzo had to name one thing about Twenty Nine Palms that he’s grateful for, it’s the fact that everything is in such close proximity to each other. The walk from Doctor Ziegler’s clinic, past the train station, and down the main dusty road a block to the bar isn’t long, though it feels longer than necessary under the hot Californian sun. 

The arrive at the saloon and Hanzo’s gaze wanders up to the wooden sign over the entrance: _The High Noon Saloon_. He raises a brow. 

“What a clever name, Jesse!” 

Hanzo thinks it’s the most ridiculous name possible.

When they step through the swinging paneled doors and enter the saloon, they find a small gathered crowd seated at wooden tables and at the bar counter. 

“Damn, sometimes it’s really goddamn scary how fast word travels in this here town.” 

Two women sit at a corner table, one with her head in a book and the other bouncing in her chair. A very large man leans against the bar counter while a short, stout man with a long golden beard rests upon a stool. Another woman and a young girl sit by one of the windows, talking to each other in hushed tones, and to Hanzo they look like mother and daughter. 

Once more, all eyes fall upon the quartet once McCree’s loud spurs clank against the wooden floor. 

“Well howdy ya’ll, looks like you’re here in time for--”

“Yes, yes, high noon. We all know,” the woman reading the book says with a sigh.

“Words stolen outta my damn mouth. Er,” McCree glances to his left to where the mother and daughter sit. The older woman clapped her hands around the young girl’s ears. “I mean...uh… my bad...mouth.” 

The older men at the counter laugh boisterously at McCree’s slip up. They pound their palms against the counter eagerly.

“McCree! We are dying of thirst in this heat! Come over here and pour us both a stout, ja? Introduce us to our new guests!” The large man says with a broad grin. 

Hanzo immediately pins him as the German from the thick accent, and it’s easy to surmise that the shorter man must be the Swede that McCree described earlier in the day. 

“Alright, alright. Don’t get your panties in a wad. I had to pull the lead outta me from last night, so sorry if I’m a little slow. Let me take care of our guests first, ya ingrates!” 

“Oh, of course, where are my manners?” Reinhardt stops leaning against the counter, and the wood breathes in relief. The very large, very muscular man walks over to Hanzo, Genji, McCree, and Angela and offers his large palm. “Guten tag, Reinhardt Wilhelm at your service. My short, clever friend at the bar is Torbjörn Lindholm.” 

Genji, once more, eagerly takes the extended hand without hesitation. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my name is Genji. My brother and I have just arrived from Japan.” His neck cranes up to make eye contact with him. “You are so tall! Is the air thinner up there?”

Hanzo huffs to himself, and then watches in near-horror as the large German wraps his arms around Genji and lifts him off of the ground in a hug.

“I don’t know, my good friend! You tell me!” 

“Reinhardt! Put ‘im down before ya break ‘im!” The shorter man says after joining the group. “I’m sorry for this brute, he doesn’t know he can snap people in two with that bear-like grip of his!” 

Reinhardt scoffs and puts Genji back down onto the ground. “Pah, you are mad because you are not as tall, nor as strong, my friend.” 

“Hardly.” Torbjörn laughs.

Reinhardt offers his hand to Hanzo, who reluctantly takes it after mentally preparing himself to being squeezed. Luckily, Reinhardt only shakes his hand politely. 

“These two clowns run the local forge. If you ever decide you want a pair of spurs like mine, you’ll want to speak with them about it. They also make pretty fine silverwares if you’re in the market for ‘em.” McCree winks. “These two know their metallurgy, I gotta hand it to ‘em. They’ve helped me fix up Peacekeeper over the years.” 

“Ja, we do, and Herr McCree regularly leaves her in our care. Gunslingers, pah. A good hammer any day keeps the bad men away!”

Behind him, Hanzo hears the Swiss woman mutter something about violence never being the solution. 

“Anyways, all, I’m sure you’ve heard the news,” McCree says to the patrons of his saloon. “Twenty Nine Palm’s got herself a couple’a travelers lookin’ for some place to put their boots up.”

Genji’s eyes widen, and he nudges Hanzo in the ribs, as if to express awe over McCree saying some recognizably iconic western phrase from one of his novels. Hanzo glares back at his brother and shakes his head. Why couldn’t Genji ever take something seriously? 

“Hanzo and Genji, and they’re lookin’ for some place quiet to settle down. Which. Lets all be real for a moment, shall we? They picked the wrong place for that, right?”

There’s a loud cacophony of whooping and hollering from the rowdier patrons. Hanzo notes that McCree knows how to play to a crowd, easily. 

“So please treat ‘em kindly, help ‘em out if you see ‘em lost. Lena, they’ll need a room, if you’ve got one available.” 

“I’ve got several available, luv!” The other woman sitting at the corner table says with a giggle. She blinks rapidly and blows a tuff of her short brown hair out of her face. “Don’t you worry, I’ll have them situated in no time.” 

“I’ll pick up their tab for the first couple’a nights once they get settled.” 

Hanzo’s lips part and his brows purse in protest. “McCree, there is no need to--”

“Hey now, you two have had a long journey to come to the states. You’re probably about to tell me you don’t take handouts and you’re not lookin’ for charity, but I’m sorry to have to tell ya this but that’s just the kind of folks we are. So get used to the kindness, pardner.” 

Hanzo doesn’t have a good enough of a retort in his armory. He looks to the group of smiling, happy faces, and he sighs. He doesn’t know what to make of McCree’s speech nor of McCree’s unnecessary generosity. 

Part of him worries that any of these seemingly kind faces could turn on him and his brother if they knew the price on their heads. He kept the bounty that was placed by the Shimada Elders a secret from even Genji. There was no need to make his brother panic and he was more than capable of shouldering the burden alone. 

Part of him wonders if perhaps it’s time to stop running and instead time to start over and leave the past behind, to resign himself to this new land, its customs and its people. 

It seems his brother Genji learned all the manners as he steps forward and replies for the two of them. “My brother and I are rather fortunate to have met you, Jesse, at the train station. Thank you.” 

“It’s my pleasure. Now, why don’t you three take a seat at that nice plush booth while I fix us up some grub. What’d’ya say?” 

Genji smiles eagerly. Hanzo nods and says, “Thank you, Mister McCree. I apologize if I do not seem grateful.” 

“That’s alright. Don’t you worry, I know you’ve had a rough go of it gettin’ here, but I hope you love our little town like we all do.” McCree tugs off his serape and his stetson as the bar settles down from the commotion. He hangs both on the little hook and then gestures for Hanzo and Genji to sit down. 

Genji races past his brother to slide into the booth and sit beside Doctor Ziegler. Hanzo refrains from shaking his head in embarrassment--one more piece of hay piled on top of mountain will not make it any heavier, even if the thought of his brother being all too eager to flirt with the Swiss woman makes him feel like the third wheel of a wagon. 

“Now, how’s about I get your drink orders, first. What’ll ya’ll have?”

“Water,” Doctor Ziegler says.

“Why am I not surprised?” McCree chuckles and then looks to the brothers. “And what about you two?” 

Hanzo hesitates and then quietly asks, “...Do you have tea?”

“Koshinuke,” Genji curses under his breath.

“Uh...hmm. I’m not sure I have tea, actually.”

“You do, McCree. Remember when I received the extra crate of herbal tea by mistake?” Ziegler explains. “It’s perhaps not the kind of tea you prefer, I myself like my tea to be light, Hanzo.” 

“That will be fine.” 

“Alright then, and what about you, Genji?”

“Beer!”

“Genji!” 

Hanzo’s brows narrow and he wants to throttle his brother across the table. 

“Brother,” Genji sighs dramatically. “I am twenty-one. Not a child. I have had sake before.” 

Hanzo folds his arms across his chest and looks away from Genji. Yes, he knows his brother has partaken in sake before, and he knows how loud and obnoxious it makes him. 

“Perhaps you should stop hiding behind tea and try something new.” 

“Pfft.” 

“One beer, Jesse. Your favorite, please.” 

“Alright, I’ll be back in a jiffy. Angela, keep an eye on ‘em for me, will you, doll?”

Jesse McCree leaves the three of them sitting in the plush velvet booth. Hanzo can’t help but watch him leave and head behind the counter, then disappear into a backroom, likely the kitchen. He almost wishes the cowboy impersonator would have stayed and perhaps provided him some relief from the situation unfolding on his right--Genji speaking to Doctor Ziegler with no pause, no shame, no hesitance. Hadn’t their father taught him anything about restraint, respectability, and courtesy? 

Hanzo stares straight ahead of him and finds a spec over the wall. He feels cramped and hot and tired. He hopes the tea may help him wake up or at least relax. Was it wrong to want some echo of home in their new environment? 

Genji had been all too ready, mentally, to leave Hanamura behind. He wanted to explore the world beyond the walls, and in some ways, Hanzo wanted to as well. The circumstances that pushed them to their escape escalated their venture into the modern world of the 20th Century quicker than anticipated. The city of Tokyo felt so rushed, so loud, so large, and so confusing. Los Angeles wasn’t any different, but Hanzo felt even more like an outsider amidst the stares they received and odd English phrases they overheard. He knew plenty about America, but he did not yet know the nuances. Leaving the city and moving inland provided some relief to his racing, aching heart, and while their arrival in Twenty Nine Palms clearly has caused a ruckus, Hanzo can admit it is...quieter than the bigger city. 

This place will never compare to his home, and he will forever miss the shade of the trees or the cool mountain air and the way the stars glimmered up above while he watched them from rooftops. Perhaps they still shined as brightly at night in the middle of nowhere. What was there to enjoy in a place where the earth was barren, the closest plant resembling trees were thorny and incapable of being climbed to their peak, and there were no rivers, streams, or lakes to seek refuge in from the heat. 

Hanzo’s attention shifts to Jesse McCree as he comes out of the backroom carrying a tray with their drinks. He stops briefly at the bar to inform the two Europeans that their drink orders will be handled next, and then he’s walking back to their booth. Hanzo can’t help but linger upon the bandage tightly wrapped around Jesse’s forearm and barely showing underneath the sleeve of his gingham shirt. 

Their eyes meet as Jesse carries the drinks over to their table, and the bar owner winks. Hanzo blinks back and then quickly looks away, pretending to be listening to the inane conversation taking place between his brother and the doctor. 

“Are you sure you don’t need any help behind the counter? You really should consider hiring someone to help you. You cannot run this place all by yourself.”

“I don’t know, maybe. We’ll see. For now, I’ve got it covered. I got the steaks sizzling on the fire back there. I’m glad I cut ‘em up last night. I’m sure you two worked up quite an appetite on that train. I know I always did with all the jostlin’ around like fish in a barrel.”

“Isn’t ride a loose term around you and trains Jesse?” Ziegler asks with a raised brow. “Didn’t Sheriff Morrison say that you tried to hijack the last one?”

McCree groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “How many times do I gotta tell you, I was tryin’ to save it from the Los Muertos Gang. I can't help it if someone who knew me from ‘fore I went straight was ridin’ it as well and pegged me for tryin’ to carry out a heist.”

“Perhaps if you are needing extra help, my brother might be able to help you around your saloon, Jesse. My brother and I will be needing work, and I am thinking of offering my help with metallurgy to Reinhardt and Torbjörn .” 

“Genji, what are you--”

“Oh come on, Hanzo. You like sake, perhaps Jesse will be more inclined to import some from Japan if you help him around his business.” 

“Heh. I might just have to if that’s what one of my future customers prefer.” 

Hanzo slouches in the booth and wishes he could disappear underneath the wooden table. He closes his eyes and runs a hand over his face. When he reopens them, he sees a teapot with steam coming out of the spout and a cup full of warm tea. 

“Not sure if you’ll like it, but Angela seems to like the way that stuff tastes. I think it’s from India. Or maybe Indiana. Not really sure myself.”

“China, actually.” 

McCree laughs. “Close enough.” He looks down at Hanzo expectantly with a softer smile, “Though if it ain't your style I can get some special ordered to your likin’ on my next trip for supplies.”

Hanzo reaches out and takes the cup by the handle. He blows gently on the cup over the edge and takes a slow, hesitant sip. The tea’s not too hot, not too lukewarm, and the taste isn’t bad. His eyes widen as the aroma fills him with a sense of nostalgia for times past. He takes another sip and hums his approval when he realizes that all eyes are upon him.

“It tastes...agreeable.” 

Genji huffs and rolls his eyes. “Does _nothing_ satisfy you brother?”

“Well at least it ain't disagreeable.” McCree chuckles in good humor. “I’ll try to do better next time all the same.”

“See to it that you do.” 

But Hanzo doesn’t say it with ire or spite. He offers McCree a small, brief hint of a smile, and his heart starts to race when he sees McCree’s eyes and smile grow two times wider. 

“Challenge accepted pardner.” McCree makes a finger gun and shoots it at Hanzo with a quiet bang.

Hanzo can’t help but find the fire in McCree’s eyes amusing. He’s curious as to what extent McCree might go to attempt to impress him. He smirks. “I suppose I can concede that my brother is correct. Him and I will need work. If you require help around your saloon, I will offer myself, on the condition that you import better tea.”

“Sure. I can do that. I told you I would ‘fore you even said that.” 

“Then we are agreed.” 

“Well, you can start tomorrow, how about that? Get yourself a nice bit of rest in one of Lena’s comfy-cozy rooms and start out fresh.” 

There’s a moment of awkward silence between the quartet.

“Jesse, aren’t your steaks going to burn?” Angela asks after clearing her throat.

McCree blinks out of his stupor and a small blush spreads across his cheeks. “Ah. Yeah. You’re right. I better go check on those.” 

“And you better check on my stout, McCree!” Reinhardt says from behind his shoulder. 

“See, this is what I deal with. Hope you’re up for needy German beer connoisseurs and their Swedish pals eggin’ ‘em on.”

Hanzo continues drinking his tea and listens to his brother talk with Doctor Ziegler about her work until it blends with the rest of the activity in the saloon. He watches McCree rush back into the kitchen and then come out with a look of pure relief on his face. He tends to the bar, serving the two Europeans their drinks, and he chuckles loud and grins during the conversation they have at the counter. 

Perception has always been his strong suit; he knows without a doubt that running this saloon, tending all of the customers is a difficult job. McCree handles it with grace despite his unkempt appearance. He appears to enjoy the sarcastic banter and he’s more than capable of countering otherwise scathing words with his own quick-witted responses. Besides his own younger brother, he's never met a man who speaks what's exactly on his mind so easily. It brings him a small measure of comfort to be near someone so unabashedly honest unlike the stiff Elders of Clan Shimada who hid every emotion and tried to force Hanzo to do the same.

Despite his earlier misgivings, Hanzo realizes the more he observes Jesse McCree the more he realizes the man wears his heart openly on his sleeve. Perhaps staying in the poorly named town of Twenty Nine Palms will not be such a bad idea after all.


	6. Desert Melody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The High Noon Saloon treats its newest arrivals to an evening of music and dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to say a quick thank you to all of you have been reading and following this piece. Thank you so much for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. It really warms my heart reading all of your kind words and seeing a positive response to this fic! 
> 
> So without further ado, enjoy!

Jesse McCree strums his guitar and taps his foot to the rhythm of the music. All of of the tables and chairs not permanently situated in his saloon have been pushed to the walls in order to create a dance floor. Every night _The High Noon Saloon_ boasts the best music, dancing, and spirits in all San Bernardino County, just ask anyone from Twenty Nine Palms, and McCree’s damn proud of the fact (and it’s a fact, one he likes to remind everyone at any and every chance he gets).

On the edges of the dance floor, Reinhardt and Torbjörn stomp their feet and clap their hands while all the women in town dance except for Doctor Ziegler, who always insists on being a wallflower with every bad excuse in the book. Tonight she said she’s much too stiff to dance after the day she’s had. While McCree can understand that, he also thinks a little living and a little loosening up might do her some good. 

Lena and Amelie dance together, and it’s a sight for sore eyes. Lena’s all over the place, a little clumsy, a little awkward, but she doesn’t care. She dances like no one’s watching. Meanwhile, Amelie looks like she’s trying to perform a god damn ballet in the middle of the group. It’s probably the funniest thing he’s seen in the last couple of hours, and he loves the big, goofy grin on Lena’s face and the soft smile on Amelie’s.

One song ends and the next begins, and McCree sees out of the the corner of his peripheral vision none other than Genji walk up to Miss Ziegler with the moon in his eyes. He bows his head and asks her to dance with the offer of his hand and it’s the most goddamn saccharine thing he’s ever seen. He’s so grateful when he sees Angela take his hand, blushing as Genji kisses the back of it, and she joins the man on the dance floor. He knows he’s gonna have to head to the city and schedule a dentist appointment cause he’s got a cavity after seeing this. 

So McCree makes sure to play somethin’ soft and slow. Somethin’ for all the couples out there in his saloon. He watches Torbjörn join his wife on the dance floor--a taller gal named Betsy he met in town years ago. He watches Reinhardt, a tall, fearless German man walk up to Mrs. Ana Amari and stumble his way into asking her to dance. He’s nervous and fidgeting, and he can’t believe the man can fearlessly swing a goddamn hammer in a gunfight but he’s anxious around a lady. The Egyptian woman smiles coyly and takes his large hand in hers and Reinhardt leads their dance with elegance for someone so large. 

McCree looks around his saloon hall and can’t help but frown when his eyes fall upon two people. Not everyone’s havin’ a good time, and not every couple’s on the dance floor.

Gabriel Reyes and Jack Morrison are still on opposite sides of the saloon after arriving separately. McCree thought they’d have kissed and made up by now. Reyes sits at the bar with a glass of tequila in his hand and Jack sits in a booth watching over everyone like he’s their father chaperonin’ the Sunday school dance. McCree can imagine Jack hoppin’ to his feet and pushing through the crowd at the first sign of indecent conduct. He wishes Reyes and Morrison would get over their argument and get to their own brand of indecent conduct already. 

When McCree’s eyes fall on Hanzo, he watches the man lean against the bar with a small smile on his face, one he probably thinks no one can see or is paying real attention to. Hanzo’s drumming his fingers against the counter along to the beat of his guitar, and it lifts McCree’s spirits. At least he’s been able to convince Hanzo to partake, even a little, in the pleasure of music. 

Their eyes meet amidst the merriment. Hanzo happens to turn his head and McCree does too. Jesse stops playing for a moment while everyone else either stomps or claps, continuing the steady beat, and he tips the brim of his hat towards Hanzo with a grin. Hanzo looks away once McCree begins to play again, but his smile doesn’t falter. 

When the song ends, everyone takes a break. McCree heads to the bar, pulls his guitar strap over his shoulder, and places the instrument onto his counter beside Gabriel. He reaches over the counter, grabs a chilled beer, and removes the cap. He leans against the edge and takes a long drink. Gabriel turns his head and glances at him.

“If you got something you wanna say to me, then say it. Otherwise, leave me alone.”

“Aw c’mon now, tequila’s supposed to make you nicer, not grumpier.” 

Gabriel shoots him a cold glare--one that sends a shiver down his spine. He drinks the rest of his tequila and slams the shot-glass onto the counter. He loosens his grip gradually and gestures to the empty glass with a tilt of his head. 

“I think you’ve had enough.”

“Yeah.” He lets go of the glass and folds his arms on the counter. He shrugs. “Whatever.”

“Y’know you left your guitar here last night.” Jesse places his beer on the counter and goes around back. He kneels down behind the bar and reveals the beautifully crafted chestnut colored guitar. He places it onto the bar in front of Gabriel. “Didn’t want anyone to steal it. How about you go grab it and we play a few songs. Might do you some good to stop poutin’ like a kicked puppy. I know your boy Jack sure loves hearin’ you play.”

“Not interested.” 

McCree groans and pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. Why’d he have to go and make friends with stubborn jackasses?

He comes back around and sits down on the stool on Gabriel’s right side.

“I think it’d be good for you to get up and stop mopin’. If you don’t want to play, well fine, but why not mosey on over to where Jack’s sittin’ and make up with him. It’s been a day. It ain’t like you two to hold a grudge so long. I think the town prefers when you’re both on the same side as opposed to fightin’. People don’t like pickin’ sides.”

“Mind your own business,” Gabriel growls. 

“No, I don’t think I will. You’re both bein’ mighty petty if you ask me. Life’s too short for you to stay sore at each other and you two know it better’n most. Whatever you both are fightin’ over… it ain’t worth it. Kiss and hug it out already.” Jesse places a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “C’mon you know I’m right.”

Gabriel looks over his shoulder to where Jack’s sitting. He sighs woefully and frowns. He fishes into his pocket, pulls out a couple of bills, and places them by his emptied glass. He slides off the bar stool and takes his guitar. 

“Thanks for looking after it,” he mutters. 

Jesse’s about to smile at himself for his match-making skills, until he watches Gabriel walk right by Jack’s booth and leave out the paneled doors. His heart drops into his stomach and he quickly looks to Jack, who looks like his heart was smashed to pieces. He scowls. 

Sometimes Gabriel sure knows which buttons to press in order to piss him off. 

He’s about to run after the man and drag his sorry ass back into the bar, even if Gabriel kicks and screams, when he sees Jack slide out of the booth and follow after him. 

The ordeal almost sours his good mood. Luckily, he hears a loud, girlish laugh from behind. He turns, and he’s surprised to see Angela Ziegler giggling like a goddamn schoolgirl as Genji bends her back in his arms. The sight makes McCree smile. _Least someone’s havin’ fun._

McCree grabs his guitar and starts to head back to his seat at the end of the hall, when Hanzo catches his attention. He raises a hand to scratch his beard in thought. If Jack and Gabe don’t want to have fun, he’s not going to let them spoil his good time. He walks up to Hanzo with a renewed smile on his face. 

“Hey there Hanzo. You havin’ a good time?” 

Hanzo nods. His pensive expression leaves McCree wondering what’s on his mind. 

“You got any requests? I know ‘em all. Well. Least all the big American songs. I don’t really know any songs from Japan, but if you hum the melody and maybe describe the beat, I can try to come up with somethin’ you’d like.”

“I don’t think you could replicate anything from Japan--no offense. The music I learned was perhaps the equivalent to western classical music; something to be played quietly for oneself, for guests, or for performance. I have only read about western musical instruments in my studies, and your guitar is the first I have seen in person.” Hanzo gestures to the instrument in McCree’s hand. “Did you make it yourself?”

“No, not exactly.” Jesse reaches up and rubs at the back of his neck. He smiles fondly. “It’s my old man’s. He gave it to my older brother, James. When he left for the war, he told me to look after it. James didn’t come back so I’m lookin’ after it and makin’ sure it gets played.” 

Hanzo frowns. “I… I am sorry about your brother.” 

“It’s alright. He was doin’ his duty. He loved music and he taught me all kinds of stuff, so I like playin’ to keep his memory alive.” 

“I think your older brother would be grateful and feel most honored by your actions.” 

“Aw, that’s mighty kind of ya to say, Hanzo.” Jesse smiles softly. He has a feeling deep in his heart that Hanzo doesn’t just say this kind of stuff to anyone. He feels his heart skip in his chest, and he dramatically places his hand over his heart. “You’re gonna make me choke up. Gonna make me all emotional, little more than I’m used to.” 

They let the buzz of people talking and having a good time settle between them. McCree likes seeing Hanzo all calm and serene. Stills his thoughts, relaxes his muscles, makes him feel like he’s floatin’ on a river. Hanzo unfolds his arms and places them against the edge of the counter.

“Back in Japan, I used to play an instrument called Ryūteki, which means dragon flute in your language. The sound of the Ryūteki is said to represent the dragons which ascend the skies between the heavenly lights and the people of the earth. It is spiritual, mystical, and meant to remind its player of the relationship between the earth beneath our feet and the sky above.”

“Sounds mighty pretty. Don’t suppose you brought it along?” 

Hanzo nods. He falls silent and folds his arms across his chest again. 

McCree can’t help himself. “I bet you play it well with it between those lips of yours.” He tips his hat back and chuckles.

Hanzo’s head sharply turns to look at McCree, and McCree wishes he had a way to preserve the memory of Hanzo’s bewildered expression. He gapes at the cowboy and blinks rapidly at him, as if he can’t believe McCree would say what he just said. 

“Maybe once you’re all settled and feelin’ brave one night, you could play it with me. I think we could make some mighty fine music together, you and me.” 

Hanzo looks away with pink cheeks, and McCree knows it’s more than just a sunburn. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, all shock, a little fear mixed with a little uncertainty. Had no one ever flirted with Hanzo before? McCree can’t believe it for one second. Not with the way the other man looked.

“I’m just sayin’ I like playin’ with other people, I like learnin’ music. Maybe we could play sometime after work. Have to work together so that it doesn’t sound like a pile of crap.” McCree’s voice lowers and softens. “You can learn a lot about a man when he’s sharin’ a piece of himself through a tune. Can't lie or hide behind anything when it’s just you’n’him and a melody.”

Hanzo turns his head slowly to look back at McCree. Their eyes meet once more, and McCree’s never felt more on display. He put himself out there, he took a risk and did a little more than joke around. He wishes he could read Hanzo like he can read most of the people in Twenty Nine Palms, but Hanzo’s presence leaves him a little more mystified than he’d openly admit. 

“Perhaps you and I can play sometime.” 

With just a handful of words, McCree feels like he just shot six for six with his trusty pistol. He wants to hoot and holler, to punch the air in success, but he keeps a calm exterior. _Play it cool, Jesse McCree, keep your head cool._ Even if it feels like his heart’s racing faster than a jackrabbit runnin’ from a coyote.

McCree tips his hat so Hanzo can’t see his eyes and grins. He can’t let anyone think Jesse McCree’s gone all soft and squishy. He has to keep the aura of cavalier mystery somehow. 

“Oh, I’d sure like that, Hanzo.” Jesse clears his throat. “But speakin’ of work. Y’know, I won’t hold you to workin’ at my saloon if you ain’t too keen on the idea. I know your brother and Angela put you on the spot there, so I sure as hell won’t force you. Runnin’ this here fine establishment takes a lot of work, and I won’t ask that of you if you’re not willin’.” 

“I stand by my word.”

Hanzo says it so matter-of-factly that it leaves McCree a little winded; he thought he’d have to use a little more of the McCree charm in order to persuade him. He scratches an itch at his adam’s apple. 

“Well, alright. If you’re sure. I open up for lunch at eleven o’clock sharp, but I have to clean up and manage my stock, work the budget, order new inventory, and the like. You won’t have to worry about that too much, but I’ll need a hand doin’ the basics. Dusting, sweeping, cleanin’ the dishes mostly. Sometimes if I’m addin’ somethin’ special to the menu I gotta work on it earlier in the day. I’m more of a lunch and dinner guy. Lena handles breakfast around here for the most part. She makes a great stack of silver dollar pancakes. You and Genji ought to love ‘em.” 

“I’m sure I can handle whatever task you assign me, Mister McCree.”

“Well task number one is stop callin’ me Mister McCree. It’s either McCree or Jesse.” 

Hanzo sighs. “Fine.” 

“Now, I’m serious,” he says with a laugh. “I want us to build a good workplace atmosphere. It’s mighty important. Customers pick up when there’s trouble afoot and it's bad for business.” 

McCree returns to his seat at the end of the bar. He winks over to Hanzo and then starts to play an upbeat song. He plays better than usual tonight. He hits all the notes and has no hiccups or lapses in memory about which chord comes next. He can almost feel Hanzo’s eyes on him, watching him play the guitar, watching his fingers strum the strings, and it sets his blood on fire. The compliments he receives after playing make him blush, and he’s surprised to see even Hanzo clapping for him. Pride swells in his chest.

When the commotion in the saloon starts to simmer down, everyone decides to call it a night. Everyone helps get the bar back in order. McCree appreciates it. They don’t need to help, but they do, no questions asked. 

“You played well tonight, my friend!” Reinhardt bellows while wrapping his arm around McCree. “I feel as limber as ever!” 

“Pleasure as always,” McCree says with a chuckle.

McCree catches Genji bowing before Angela and kissing the back of her hand. 

“I greatly enjoyed dancing with you, Miss Ziegler. I hope I will soon have the pleasure of holding you in my arms once more.” 

McCree’s never seen the Swiss woman blush as hard as she does, and she looks like she’s about to melt into a puddle on his floor. 

“May I walk you back to your home?” 

“Thank you, I would appreciate that.” 

Angela leaves on Genji’s arm, and McCree hears her laugh at a joke the younger brother must have made. McCree’s never seen Angela look this smitten nor this relaxed before. 

Torbjörn and his wife leave with murmured sweet-nothings between them, a promise of enjoying the rest of their evening back at their home at the metallurgy. McCree’s never seen a woman carry a man out of the threshold of his saloon before. _Guess there’s always a first time for everything._

Young Fareeha and her mother leave after thanking McCree for a good, energetic evening. Reinhardt towers behind them, with his arm around Ana’s waist.

“Can we come back tomorrow, mother?” The young girl asks.

“Only if you finish your essay.” 

Fareeha folds her arms across her chest and rolls her eyes dramatically. She stomps out of the saloon. Ana turns to Reinhardt and stands on the tips of her toes in order to kiss his cheek. She murmurs something to him, something McCree can’t hear, but he knows the look they exchange. Before she leaves, she waves goodbye to McCree and then calls for her daughter to slow down. Reinhardt leaves the saloon and begins to sing loudly in German once outside. 

McCree waves back with a weary yawn and then stretches. He can’t help but smile to himself, despite how tired he is. He’s ready for some shut eye after the day he’s had. He turns around and sees Lena, Amelie, and Hanzo talking amongst themselves. 

“Remember, Hanzo. Come here at around nine, if you wouldn’t mind. I’ll show you around the place and we’ll get ready for the lunch rush.” He stifles another yawn. “So make sure you get some rest. Lena, you got a room for him and his brother, right?” 

“Yes, of course luv.” She cheerfully takes Hanzo by the arm and pulls him along. “I made sure to fluff the pillows and add an extra quilt, in case you or your brother find it a little chilly. Sometimes it gets rather cold, I find.” 

“It is a relief, after how miserably hot it is here, mon Dieu,” Amelie says with her thick French accent. “Enjoy the evening air, it burns off quickly in the morning.” 

“Oh, don’t be like that, dearie. It’s not so bad once you get used to it, Hanzo, trust me.” She smiles brightly. “But it does look like you have a bit of a sunburn, I’m afraid. I have some extra aloe that will help. First one is always the worst.”

“Now you take care of him, Lena. Make sure you feed him well over there, cause he’s gonna be worked like a mule over here at my place!” 

“Don’t you worry, I make the most delicious pancakes in the entire county!” 

“Good. Have a good evenin’, ya’ll.” 

McCree watches the trio leave his saloon. Hanzo looks over his shoulder back at him, and McCree waves goodbye. He imagines it’ll be tough getting used to his new environment. He knows it won’t be as smooth a transition for Hanzo as it seems to be for Genji. There’s only so much books can teach a man about another place. 

It’s with that thought, McCree remembers the weird look Hanzo gave him. He realizes he should have explained that silver dollar pancakes aren’t hard, and that they aren’t made of silver. Then, he shrugs with a chuckle. Sometimes lived experience is the best teacher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a heads up, the next chapter is where the rating will be boosted up from T to M/E.


	7. Solo Por Ti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack knows where to find Gabriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! To all of you who commented or left kudos, thank you. It means so much to Zath and I.
> 
> This chapter contains war violence, characters suffering from PTSD, and explicit sexual content. If any of the Spanish contained in this chapter needs tweaking, please let me know!

"I had a feeling I'd find you out here." 

Gabriel stops strumming his guitar abruptly. He turns and looks over his shoulder to see his husband Jack Morrison standing at the bottom of the barn wearing only a white button-up, jeans, and leather boots. He holds a lantern and blanket in his hands, and Gabriel refrains from making a crass comment about Jack always being afraid of the dark. 

"You mind if I come up and join you?" 

"Course not." 

Gabriel sits atop the loft with his legs crossed and his guitar in his hands. He stares out the small little window opening and watches over their small vegetable garden full of peppers, tomatoes, cilantro, and other vegetables needed around the house. The full summer moon hangs on the horizon. 

"You didn't need to stop playing on my behalf, y'know." 

Gabriel's fingers hesitate on the taut strings. 

"I was down there for a little while just listening to you play. If I had known speaking up would cause you to be startled and stop, I might've stayed quiet down there and just listened." 

The thought of Jack down there on the barn floor listening to him play a somber melody and wishing he hadn't stopped inspires him to play. Gabriel never wants Jack to hesitate to spend time with him, no matter what's come between them. In spite of all his blustering earlier today, he doesn't want the marital spat to go on any further. With time to reflect, McCree’s words have sunken into his skin, though he’ll never admit it aloud.

Jack reaches the loft and carefully navigates his way to sit beside Gabriel. He places the lantern nearby and unfolds the blanket--it’s one Gabriel’s abuela made for them as a wedding present. He sits down beside him and wraps it around their shoulders as Gabriel plays a song he knows all too well. 

It's the song Gabriel played the night he proposed to Jack in the middle of the Great War while their platoon was on shore leave in Marseilles. It always brings back good memories. The little cove they found on the shore, the candles, the spread out blanket on the sand, the wine that a nice couple gifted them in Burgandy for saving their son from a group of drunken Germans, and the smell of salt in the air. The gentle waves crashed at the shore, shifting the sand, barely touching their feet. 

Then there was Gabriel, laying by the fire and staring up at the stars with his brows pursed. He was playing something romantic, something that sent shivers down Jack's spine. Gabriel realized during that song that he wanted more than just a relationship with Jack for the duration of the war. He wanted something longer lasting, and he wanted someone to take home to his mother, his abuela, and his three younger sisters back in Los Angeles who were waiting for him. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with hopelessly perfect, Golden Boy Jack Morrison. 

When the song ends, silence falls between them, leaving only the ambience of cicadas outside. 

Jack rests his head against Gabriel's shoulder. "What's on your mind, Gabe?" 

"Nothing," he says all too quickly, and he regrets it afterward. He sighs and shakes his head. He moves the guitar out of his lap and places it beside him. "I'm sorry." 

"For what?" 

"For arguing with you earlier." He sighs. “For being distant.”

"I know things have been rough between us, but you can always count on me having your back. However, I'm sheriff. I can't have you and McCree drawing your guns when there's a strict policy about no weapons." 

Gabriel's jaw clenches as he thinks back to the Los Muertos fuckers who waltzed into McCree's saloon acting like they owned the place. Gabriel knows he's an asshole and a bastard, but he looked like a saint compared to these thugs. 

"I didn't intend to draw. They threatened other customers and me and that big idiot." 

"That's why you call the sheriff." 

"Wouldn't have mattered," Gabriel grumbles. 

"Yes, it would have. This town is supposed to have order and decency. We don't shoot each other up in saloons to solve our problems. I--" 

"They said they were going to hurt you!" Gabriel blurts out. "Don't you get it? You're sheriff. You've got a fucking giant target on your head."

Jack purses his brows. He's not unaware of the danger in this line of work, but they've talked about this... _argued_ about it, too.

"If you think I'm going to brush it off, you're wrong. I'm not going to sit there and listen to anyone threaten you." 

"Well we didn't survive a war just for you to get injured in a bar brawl." 

"Fuck that. I'm not some invalid, Morrison." 

Jack frowns. Gabriel only ever calls him by his surname nowadays only when he's angry with him. He places a hand over Gabriel's fist, which loosens immediately once skin touches skin. 

"I know you're not," Jack says softly. 

"So then go ahead and be pissed off. I don't care. Doesn't change the fact I'd beat those fuckers to an inch of their life again if I had the chance. I wouldn't change my choice." 

Jack turns Gabriel's hand and intertwines their fingers together. He squeezes, and he's relieved to feel a squeeze back. 

"I love you, you idiot. I'm not mad. I just... I just want you to be safe. Angela said she had to pull out three bullets from you. You should be resting in bed, not serenading the barn owls."

"I knew she'd tattle," Gabriel snorts. "I've had worse." 

"I don't like seeing you injured." 

Gabriel sighs. It's moments like this where the only solution to the disagreement is to accept that their opposing beliefs are at an impasse. Gabriel would do anything to keep Jack's name clean, even injure himself in the process, and all Jack wants is for peace and quiet, even if it means ignoring those who don't understand. 

"Sometimes it's worth it." 

The words take Jack to a time over five years ago. 1918, the Second Battle of the Marne. He remembers the sound of artillery firing, gatling guns whirring violently, the sound of mortar fire, the rumble of tanks, and the shouted orders from their commanding officer. He remembers the smell of blood, piss, and all kinds of other shit, smoke, and rain. The static in the air left everyone on edge. Rain meant mud, and mud meant trench foot once the battle died down for the night. 

He remembers Gabriel being one of the only other Americans in his part of the trench. Cocky, sure-of-himself Gabriel Reyes who was ready to win the pool amongst all the other soldiers of who would earn the most kills. It was a morbid game if there ever was one, but no one could say no to the promise of a couple hundred American dollars. 

The soft glow from the lantern heightens the shadows playing on their wrists and knuckles. In the distance, a coyote howls, followed by the sound of a barn owl hooting. 

"You remember the Marne?" 

Beside him, Gabriel stiffens momentarily and then relaxes. He lays his head against Jack's pretty blonde head of hair. "Yeah. Of course." 

"I couldn't stop thinking about it today after our fight." 

"Me too." 

Gabriel remembers sitting with Jack Morrison, the farm boy from Indiana, who somehow made waiting in those trenches bearable. He was everything that Gabriel wasn't. Jack Morrison was good with people, charming, optimistic, endlessly kind. Jack could have sat and spent the days of boredom between battle with anyone in the platoon but he chose Gabriel. His excuse always had been that he wanted to hear the latest about Gabriel's younger sisters still in primary school. 

He remembers the way Jack could line up the perfect shot from miles away, in the heat of battle. He admired the man and envied him, too. Gabriel didn't enjoy the trench warfare, keep your head down or lose it, style of fighting. He wanted action. If he was going to fight in a war he wanted to see the whites of the enemy's eyes. Hiding in a dirt hole felt pointless and cowardly.

"I still have nightmares about that night," Gabriel admits in defeat.

"I know you do." 

Gabriel couldn't sleep one night in the trench. The day had been hot and sweltering, too damn hot and humid, and the evening felt worse than those back in Los Angeles during the peak of summer. The rest of his platoon was asleep, some peacefully, some restless with shell shock. 

When he couldn't sleep he liked watching Jack Morrison. He hated admitting it, but he admired the man so damn much. He liked fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with whiter-than-bread Morrison, who couldn't even pronounce por favor right when Gabriel tried to teach him a little Spanish. He liked the color of his blue eyes. They reminded him of the ocean, calm, still, but there were depths left to be discovered. He liked Jack "Might As Well Be a Golden Retriever" Morrison enough to spend their subsequent shore leaves together, where they got to know each other further. Then, on their last, he somehow had managed to gather up the courage needed to ask him to marry him after the war was over. That was all before the Second Battle of the Marne.

No one but Gabriel had heard the low, deep, filtered breathing of someone wearing a gas mask in the trench. At first he thought he had been dreaming lucidly, but by the time the sound grew louder and was accompanied by the squelch of boots in the mud, it was too late. 

A thick miasma crept through the trenches, and Gabriel only had a split second to yell out and warn his platoon. _Gas! It's the gas! Get your masks on!_

The other soldiers woke and they woke to stinging eyes and a prickling sensation on their uncovered, vulnerable skin. It was utter chaos in the trench, screaming and cussing and orders Gabriel barely heard as he pulled on his standard-issue gas mask.

Across from him, Jack didn't stir from his sleep even with the commotion. Gabriel jostled him, shook him, screamed in his face for him to wake up, but the blonde didn't budge. 

Gabriel frowns, and to Jack he looks like a haunted man. He tries so hard to keep his voice from cracking. "I thought you were going to die." 

"I could say the same about you." 

Gabriel sighs. He closes his eyes and he watches the scene unfold before him in his memories. Jack wouldn't stir, and Gabriel wasn't about to leave him behind. He searched through Jack's belongings. 

_Where the fuck is his gas mask?!_

He was already working on borrowed time. Jack didn't have a mask, so Gabriel gave his own. He carried Jack out of the trenches in his arms, breathing in the putrid, burning gas. He ran as fast as he could to reach the safety of fresh air. Later, he learned that Jack did indeed have one, but in the dark, with the fog, with the confusion and adrenaline, Gabriel had missed it hiding underneath Jack's dirty coat. 

The heroic deed earned Gabriel a Purple Heart, but it resulted in four months spent in a hospital in Paris. By the time he was discharged, the war was over but the damage to his lungs was permanent. 

"You've risked your life enough for me--enough to last a lifetime, Gabriel." 

Gabriel shuts his eyes tight and holds Jack's hand in a vice-grip. He doesn't like talking about the night he nearly lost Jack “Sunshine” Morrison. He doesn't like thinking about how frightened he had been that their promise to one another might be cut short. That his younger sisters, his mother, his abuela might never meet the beautiful pendejo he had fallen in love with in France and written to them about. 

"I guess I'll try to keep out of trouble more." Gabriel mutters. "No promises, though, sheriff. You might have to end up locking me up." 

Jack turns his head to meet Gabriel's brown eyes for the first time since climbing up the ladder to join him. 

Gabriel reaches out to touch Jack's cheek. He leans forward and presses his warm forehead against Jack's. He can't help himself. He closes his eyes and kisses Jack as gently as that night on the Mediterranean shore so long ago. He can almost taste the sea salt on Jack's lips if he focuses hard enough. 

When their kiss ends, their eyes meet and Jack smiles so softly. They share a moment of understanding and relief. Neither enjoys fighting. Neither enjoys not speaking to one another. This time there's resolution, this time there's answers, an explanation, even if it needed to be teased out of Gabriel. 

Jack clasps his fingers at the base of his husband's neck and his fingers splay through his curls. "I missed you, Gabe." 

Gabriel nods but doesn't speak. He cups Jack's chin again and kisses him harder, deeper, parting lips. His beard scratches against Jack’s smooth skin. He wants to leave those lips swollen and bruised. He wants everyone to know that Jack is his, no one else can have the Sheriff like he does, and that he's willing to earn Jack's forgiveness, whatever it takes. 

Memories rush through his thoughts. The time they kissed in Paris when he finally woke up in the hospital bed. Jack initiated with tears sliding down his cheeks. His lover tasted salty, but it wasn't of the sea. Gabriel didn't want Jack to cry over him. 

_Pull it together, Jack, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere._

And then, like present times, Jack grabbed him by the shoulders and yelled in his face. 

_You nearly died! You almost got yourself killed! You should have left me behind!_

Gabriel remembers the way Jack's face contorted, broke into sobs, and the other man fell back into the nearby chair with his head in his hands. 

_Do you know what it would have done to me, Gabriel, knowing you'd died because of me?_

_Do you know what it would have done to_ me, _if you died? You were unconscious because of that shit in the air. You were in worse shape than me. I did what I had to do._

It caused Jack to huff and sigh. _Don't risk your life like that for me again. Ever. I can fight whatever's thrown our way just as good._

For the sake of ending the argument, Gabriel agreed, even if he knew deep in his heart that he had made the right decision in the trench. Jack was alive, breathing, and looking as beautiful as the day they first kissed, even if he looked so upset. Jack finally began to recover, and he pulled his chair closer to the medical bed. 

_Tell me I still look good._

_You're still as ugly as before, but I always liked you that way._

_I bet you do,_ Gabriel smiled and did his best to sit up and kiss Jack's forehead. 

When Armistice Day came, they celebrated with the rest of the world. Gabriel was discharged honorably from the service and from the hospital. He still needed to take things slow, and he used a cane to help keep himself steady. It didn't stop Gabe from grabbing Jack in the middle of the street, with everyone else in Paris hooting and hollering, to kiss him to the sound of church bells ringing. 

Jack took their celebrations a step further. It must have been the church bells that inspired him, but Jack tugged Gabriel along to the US embassy and found a long line of couples, mostly comprised of armed service men and women, who had the same idea. 

Gabriel glances down at the gold rings on their fingers while Jack peppers his neck with kisses. He smiles to himself when he thinks Jack isn't looking. 

They married on Armistice Day, and it was, as the cliche rang, the start of the rest of their lives. 

They spent their honeymoon in the little attic loft Jack rented while Gabriel recovered. His request for leave was patched through by his superior officer after their service at the Marne. He needed the war to be over so he and Gabe could go back home to the states. 

"Do you remember our honeymoon?" 

"Heh. Of course I do," Gabe's voice purrs in his ear as his fingers fall to the buttons of Jack's shirt. When it opens, Gabe pulls it off and then leans away in order to spread out the blanket Jack brought onto the wooden loft ledge. “I remember making you beg.” 

He returns to Jack’s lips with hunger in his brown eyes. He wants Jack to know how sorry he is for today. He wants Jack to remember the passion and love he feels for him. He never wants Jack to doubt, even when it's rough between them. Even when he’s behaving like a stubborn ass.

Gabriel guides Jack onto his back and crawls over him. He grabs a fistful of Jack's blonde hair and arches his neck so that Gabriel can lay open mouthed kisses with ease. Jack's adam's apple receives the most attention, and it makes him rut his pelvis against Gabriel's. 

Gabriel leaves a trail of red blotches in his wake. Love bites that Jack will try to hide tomorrow morning, lest everyone know. The kisses trail lower, sordid as the summer heat. 

Jack runs his fingers through Gabriel’s brown hair and shudders as a firm tongue draws circles around his nipple. He flushes; he hates admitting how weak that makes him in the knees, but the moan that slips past his lips reveals truth. 

“Te adoro,” Gabriel whispers. His eyes fall half-lidded. He drags his calloused thumb along one of Jack’s scars from before the war. He remembers Jack telling the story of each. The one on his abdomen was from falling out of a tree he played in as a boy. Then another, he explores, that hails from the war. A stab wound from the close encounter in Burgundy with Germans. 

This is how he wants to see his husband Jack Morrison. Shivering and whimpering. Gabriel has only given the man’s neck and chest attention, and he’s already a hot mess. When they kiss again, Jack’s hands claw at his dark shirt. 

“I need to see you.” 

“Relax,” Gabriel smiles, “just lay down and relax, baby.” 

Gabriel sits back on his calves and smirks. He unbuttons his shirt slowly, and it drives Jack mad. He lingers on each button, letting dark mahogany skin be revealed at his pace. 

After Gabriel opens the shirt, he tosses it aside. He savors the unbridled thirst in Jack’s eyes. The way they follow the movements of his hands as they move over his sculpted abdomen towards the teasing trail of dark hair. The way Jack bites his own lip in anticipation and swallows thickly. 

Gabriel moves back over Jack and swallows his groan. He presses his warm chest against Jack, smothering him, and the long journey of kisses down Jack’s jaw, neck, and shoulder continues. 

“Bésame,” Gabriel sings in his low, deep voice in between kisses upon Jack’s ear and temple, “bésame mucho...” his palms explore the contours of Jack’s torso. 

Jack knows this song. Gabriel sent his heart into a state of pure bliss on their honeymoon. Making love on the bed, with Jack sprawled beneath Gabriel, digging his nails into his lover’s back. Gabriel always liked a bit of pain. He liked the challenge in Jack’s eyes to ruin him so completely and so wickedly. 

Gabriel unbuckles Jack’s belt and slips his hand down his lover’s trousers. He feels the hot, hardening bulge there. He smirks and moves down Jack's body to remove his leather boots and socks. He then begins to tug the jeans down until they’re off his body. He strokes the hard length over the cloth of his undergarments. 

Jack whimpers and breathlessly says his lover’s name. He melts into the boards of the loft, raises his hips, and thrusts up into Gabriel’s palm, seeking friction. Gabriel removes the last vestige of clothing, and then Jack is naked. 

Gabriel loves the sight of Jack Morrison bathed in moonlight, shadows, and the glow of the lantern. His skin a blur of colors, light and dark, like one of the Impressionist paintings they saw hanging in a Parisian museum before returning to America. Gabriel loves art. He loves the drama, the aesthetic beauty, the desire to display one’s soul to bare through interpretation. To him, Jack is a masterpiece, one full of mystery.

Gabriel loves Jack’s flushed white skin. The way his messy hair looks like a halo. The sheen of sweat building on his skin. The tremor in his bones. 

“Que tengo miedo a tenerte,” Gabriel whispers as he places a kiss at the beginning of the ‘v’ leading to Jack’s cock. His hand grabs hold of Jack’s length, and he draws his forefinger up and over the throbbing vein. His mouth closes around the head and his tongue flicks against the tip. He teases Jack with lazy movements. Long licks up and down the length with the flatness of his tongue. He draws out Jack’s pleasure with the lightest of feathered touches.

Gabriel raises his head off of Jack’s cock and moves back up to Jack’s lips. He offers three fingers to him, and Jack wets them eagerly, tasting his own precum.

“Y perderte otra vez…” Gabriel sighs as he stares into Jack’s blue eyes. “What would I do without you, Jack?”

“I don’t want you to ever to find out.” 

They share an open mouthed kiss. They hear an owl hooting nearby. The sleeping sounds of their animals mingles with the sound of their breathy moans and whispers. 

Gabriel’s serenades during the war while on shore leave always charmed Jack. Gabriel knows his lover and his husband well enough to know what the sound of his deep voice singing songs of romance, pleasure, and the heat of love-making does to Jack. 

Jack may not be able to sing to Gabriel in Spanish, he still knows what his lover enjoys hearing. 

“Take me,” he pleads. Another kiss, with tongue. Gabriel bites Jack’s lower lip and tugs. They learned much about French-kissing in France. Long days spent exploring one another in the shade of trees on the Seine. “Please Gabriel. Please make love to me.” 

Gabriel smirks. His takes his wet fingers and lowers them to Jack’s tight hole. He swirls them around in a circle, wetting the area, and then one slips inside, eliciting a guttural sound from Jack. He works the finger in and out while his mouth takes more of Jack’s cock, until the head reaches the back of his throat. He adds a second finger. Jack clenches around him with a drawled moan. The two fingers scissor carefully inside of Jack, searching for the little bundle of nerves. Once found, Jack’s head lolls back in submission. 

“Tell me when to add another.”

“Now, God, please do it.” 

Gabriel removes his fingers and then plunges all three back in slowly. Jack pants and claws at the wooden floorboards of the loft seeking something to hold onto for support. He moans when Gabriel’s knuckle deep, and the pressure in Jack’s abdomen leaves him dizzy. 

“I love seeing you like this,” Gabriel purrs. He starts to move his fingers in and out of Jack, stretching him, while listening to the blonde closely. “Beg for my cock.” 

“Gabriel,” Jack whines.

“ _Beg._ ” 

Jack blinks up at the barn’s ceiling and runs a hand through his sweaty blonde hair. The weight in Gabriel’s eyes makes his heart skip and his brain melt. The cool summer evening does little to stifle the heat between them. He blushes and feels the desperate words form on his tongue, but hesitation remains. 

“Jack,” Gabriel whispers.

Jack tilts his head and looks down again to see Gabriel’s lips slowly moving to his cock once more. They barely enclose around the head, the touch too teasing, too light. A guttural groan rises up his throat. 

Gabriel’s brown eyes reflect the red and orange glow of the lantern as if there is fire inside of them. His curls messied from Jack’s hand in his hair, his lips curled upward in a wicked grin, his scars accented by the shadows playing on his face. He places kisses upon the base of Jack’s cock, taking one ball into his mouth at a time. He massages the back of Jack’s thighs and squeezes his ass.

It’s slow, wonderfully agonizing pleasure torture. For his impulsive mannerisms and his bad habit of speaking-without-thinking, Gabriel seems to have all of the time and patience in the world to push Jack further and further to his limits. _Te adoro,_ Jack heard, I worship you. Jack thinks it’s the other way around; Gabriel is an angel, even if at times the other man would consider his bad temper to be that of the Devil himself. 

“God, Gabe, you haven’t even taken off your pants.” 

“I’m aware of the state of my undress,” Gabriel says while working his fingers deeper into Jack. “You know what I want to hear.” 

Jack’s blush deepens. He throws an arm over his face and whimpers. “This is such cruel and unusual punishment! The eighth amendment protects me against this.” 

“Are you really referencing the goddamn Constitution right now? No wonder the army wanted your white ass to be an officer. You’re Uncle Fucking Sam’s Colonel America.” 

Jack bursts into laughter. He smiles like a madman and lowers his arm away from his face. “C’mon. You love it.” 

Gabriel can’t help himself. He smiles and chuckles too at his ridiculous joke. He removes his fingers from Jack’s ass and embraces him. He looks into Jack’s blue eyes and kisses him on the lips. “I sure do,” he murmurs after the kiss, “I’m grateful that you left the army too.” 

“I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. I had enough of war. There’s nothing special or exciting about combat. I couldn’t take your sacrifices in vain. I love you Gabriel Reyes, and I meant it when I said our vows.” 

Gabriel presses his warm forehead against Jack’s. He feels a lump of emotion in his throat, and he has to kiss Jack again to swallow down the fears so deeply wedged in his heart. 

When he recollects himself, Gabriel recovers his bravado. He massages Jack’s pectoral and then shrugs. 

“I suppose this has earned you some form of a reward.” 

“I knew dropping the Constitution would work.” 

“As if,” Gabriel rolls his eyes and chuckles. He sits up again on his knees and begins to remove his trousers. He licks his lips and tastes Jack there. He hums in approval when Jack starts to touch himself, stroking his own cock. He undresses without wasting time or showboating. Suddenly he needs to be buried deep inside of Jack. Suddenly he can’t wait any longer to be joined with the love of his life. 

Once as naked as Jack, Gabriel pauses to give Jack enough time to appreciate his body. His broad chest, the trail of hair leading down the meridian of his torso, the sharp points of his abdomen, the rippling muscles of his thick thighs, the girth of his erection. He kneels down between Jack’s legs, spits into his palm, bends forward, and grabs both of their lengths to rub them together. 

They could easily rut against one another to completion, but it’s not what either wants, needs. 

Gabriel’s gaze bores into Jack’s eyes as he guides the head of his spit lathered cock into his ass. He bends Jack’s legs, holding him by the backs of his knees, and they both grunt and moan. The tight heat envelopes every inch of him. He presses forward carefully, slowing whenever Jack winces. 

Once fully in, Gabriel waits to let Jack adjust. They say nothing, and they listen to the sounds one another makes. Gabriel’s deeper groans, Jack’s shuddered whimpers.

“It feels so good being inside of you again, Jack.” 

“Yes,” Jack breathes. He reaches down between them where they are joined. “God it’s so full.”

The compliment goes straight to his cock. Gabriel grins in pride. 

“You ready, mi corazón?” 

“Yes... please.” 

Gabriel draws back his hips, sliding out nearly completely, and then drives back inside, hard. He grits his teeth while gripping Jack’s thighs tightly beneath his palms to leave red marks. He bottoms out inside of his husband, grunting deeply, and he wets his dry lips as his eyes fall half-lidded. He moves his rough hands along Jack’s flushed skin as he begins to pick up the pace.

Nothing feels better than reconciling after a fight and burying deep inside of Jack Morrison to make it all better. Sweating out confessions, casting out dark memories from their pasts, letting their disagreements go. Nothing else matters to Gabriel Reyes than seeing his husband completely wrapped around his finger, submitting to lust, ordering him to move faster, to not hold back. Gabriel never holds back in the bedroom. 

Jack may be Sheriff to the town of Twenty Nine Palms with all the authority and power and wisdom needed of a leader, but behind closed doors, he gives himself to Gabriel. Only Gabriel knows the vulnerabilities revealed in Jack’s blue eyes when they looked at one another while intimately joined. Only Gabriel knows the sound of Jack begging for release. 

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the evening ambience, drowning out the sound of the chirping grasshoppers and the hooting owls outside. The barn feels stuffy, hot, moist, with their breath mingling together. The moonlight peers through the little barn window, mixed with the light from the lantern, and they can see one another clearly. 

Jack’s back arches, grinding his hips to meet Gabriel’s, and Gabriel takes the offered opportunity. He wraps his arm around Jack. Gabriel leans forward, pressing his mouth against Jack’s chest to bite trembling flesh. He smothers Jack with kisses, leaving marks in his wake. He wants Jack to wake up tomorrow morning in their tousled sheets, aching from tonight. He wants Jack to slide out of bed, go to their mirror, and see the red marks peppered across his skin. He wants them to peek out from beneath the collar of his pristine white shirt for everyone in town to see. 

Jack suddenly grabs onto Gabriel’s curly hair and digs his fingers into his husband’s back. “God, Gabriel…,” he breathes, “don’t fucking stop.” 

Gabriel glances back up to his lover, watching as Jack’s face contorts in pleasure. He smirks and pounds harder, faster, and then Jack stiffens and clenches all around his cock. Gabriel reaches down between them and grabs hold of Jack’s length to stroke it furiously, squeezing every drop of the sticky white cum. It slides down his fingers and onto Jack’s stomach.

Jack’s grip doesn’t lessen in Gabriel’s dark hair. He pants, presses their foreheads together, and whispers, “Want it inside of me.” He kisses Gabriel hard and swallows the older man’s moan of relief. 

Gabriel fills Jack with his hips and thighs twitching from the overwhelming sensation. His heart races in his chest, his lungs on fire like he’s run laps around a track like the one from basic training. He holds himself up off of Jack’s chest with a hand near the blonde head, and he stares down at Jack with a soft, lazy smile on his face. It feels good to be on the same side of battle instead of peering into a rifle scope and seeing the other. 

Gabriel rolls off of Jack and lays down beside him on the blanket. He wraps an arm around Jack and pulls him close. Jack curls into him, resting his head on Gabriel’s chest. Gabriel takes Jack’s hand into his own, kisses the pad of each finger, with a whispered song. 

“Solo por ti, caminaría, en la infinidad.”

Gabriel kisses the palm of Jack’s hand, lingering on a scar between his thumb and forefinger. History may not remember their names in the books telling the story of the war, but Gabriel will always remember how war changed him. He can still remember the first day he met Jack in basic training, then once more in France. He’ll always remember the smile on Jack Morrison’s face when he agreed to becoming Gabriel’s fiancee. He’ll always know in his heart just how lucky he is that he was fast enough to escape the gas to save Jack. 

Beside him, Jack closes his eyes and breathes his husband’s name like a prayer.

“Afrontaría, amar por la eternidad…” 

Gabriel tilts his head and kisses Jack’s temple. He turns onto his side and brushes his nose against Jack’s. His lover looks flushed, tired, but the dreamy smile on his face says it all. He doesn’t want this night to end. He swallows hard and cups Jack’s face in his palm. He traces the curve of his lips with his thumb.

“Yo solo, solo por tí…” He murmurs then seals the promise in the lyrics with one more kiss. He could never grow tired of kissing Jack Morrison. 

When Gabriel pulls away, he looks into Jack’s glassy eyes and feels a lump in his throat. He carefully wipes at Jack’s eyes and kisses each eyelid. 

“You ever planning on translating for me?” Jack asks softly while cupping Gabriel’s cheek. 

“I think you already know what it means.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs from this chapter are the following: [Bésame Mucho](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=egau-57yGcw) and [Solo Por Ti.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BHgBcthsblY)


	8. Let Sleeping Dragons Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo and Genji settle into their room at Lena Oxton's inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting, everyone! I hope you enjoy this next chapter.
> 
> EDIT: Given news about the name of Hanzo and Genji's father, we have since changed that to reflect canon.

“I know it’s really cramped here, but once one of the other rooms opens up, you two will be the first to move into it.” 

Cramped is an understatement to Hanzo.

“This room is most welcoming, Miss Oxton. Thank you for preparing it on such short notice,” Genji says with a charming smile that makes Hanzo roll his eyes. 

“Thank you for accommodating my brother and I on such short notice.” 

“Well you boys are sure lucky I had one room left. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to come knocking on my door. It’s the white one just down the hall. You can’t miss it.” 

Lena Oxton’s cheery smile helps lift Hanzo’s spirits. The British woman’s sunny personality seems infectious. She waves goodbye and leaves him and his brother to unpack their belongings.

The room only has two thin beds pushed up against either wall, one beneath the only window. The quilted patchwork bedsheets look relatively clean and welcoming after the long day they have had. The temperature dropped sharply once the sun set, and the thought of resting under warm sheets sounds comforting. 

Genji doesn’t bother unpacking, however. He falls back onto the bed not near the window with his hands behind his head. He sighs deeply and hums loudly in approval. Hanzo can tell he’s daydreaming about the Swiss doctor.

“Coming here was a great idea, Hanzo. I don’t think I could have picked a better town than this one. The people here are so friendly and so interesting.” He opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling with a dopey smile on his face. “And so beautiful, too.”

Hanzo begins to unpack his satchel to place the few important items he brought along with him onto the only table in the room. 

“What do you think of the town’s doctor, Hanzo?” 

Hanzo feels like his eyes can’t roll any further into the back of his head. He already knows the trajectory of this conversation. He glances over his shoulder and scoffs at his brother. He almost chooses not to reply, but it’s hard to ignore Genji’s blissful expression. He hasn’t seen his brother look so honestly content and so relaxed in years. Ever since Genji came of age, he wore a mask within the walls of Hanamura. It was different than the one Hanzo wore, and they both lived separate lives. Genji pushed away his discontent at the family business and the attitudes of the Shimada elders with his flippant behavior. He behaved poorly to anger the elders, but Hanzo always knew his brother was acting out to catch his attention. 

“She seemed a fine woman,” Hanzo sighs. “Capable. Focused. Skilled in her work.” He doesn’t bother asking Genji why he’s asking. “Regardless, I urge you to be cautious, Genji, no matter your feelings.” 

“Ah,” Genji pauses. He folds his hands behind his head against the pillow. “I suppose I set myself up for this lecture. I had hoped the clean American air would have helped you relax, brother.” 

Hanzo frowns. “I know you mean well, Genji, but you must remain vigilant. Think me paranoid if you must, but one of us must maintain clarity.”

“Hanzo,” Genji groans. “If we are to settle here you are going to have to learn to trust people eventually.” 

“We have only been here for one day.” 

“Is it not obvious that these people mean no harm?”

“No? You have only known these people for one day. You hardly know them.”

“And if I approach every new relationship with others with the same hesitance, suspicion, and animosity as you, then surely I will only ever know people for one day alone. You have a right to be cautious, but I encourage you to remember, Hanzo, that not everyone is as callous nor cruel as the members of Clan Shimada.” 

Hanzo stops refolding one of his spare kyudo-gi and turns sharply to look at Genji. He blinks in shock, stunned, and studies his brother closely in silence. The words hit him like a punch in the stomach. He shakes his head, not in disapproval of his brother’s overabundance of trust and compassion for others, but because Genji does not know the darkest truths about their own heritage. Genji does not know the degree of depravity their family has fallen into since the death of their mother and then their father. Genji does not know, because Hanzo has kept these truths from him. 

The conversation has turned down a road that Hanzo does not wish to venture upon at this time. He closes his eyes and looks away with a heavy heart. He concedes this argument lest Genji push him further.

“Fine. If it pleases you, brother, then I will support your decision to get to know these people. I only want you to be happy, but _please_ be mindful of the kind of information you give away and to whom. Your safety and well-being is most important to me.” 

“You don’t need to worry about Miss Ziegler. She’s a charming, intelligent woman.” He whistles. “I have never seen a woman wear pants, and I must say, I do love the way they looked on her.” Genji rolls onto his side and looks at his brother’s clothed back. He smirks to himself. “I’m surprised you agreed to work at the bar.” 

“We will need money soon. Since you are so eager to get to know these people, find a job as well.” 

“Oh, I already have, brother. The Swede and the German offered me an apprenticeship at the metallurgy. I told them about my swords. Tomorrow I’m taking them there to show them the craftsmanship. I think they will be most impressed. Perhaps they will show me how to make metal spurs for our shoes.” 

It doesn’t surprise Hanzo that Genji would make such quick friends. It doesn’t surprise them that he’d want to show off the swords, his brother’s most prized possessions. 

“I know enough about weaponry that I believe I could help. They seemed convinced as well.” 

Hanzo nods. He places his folded clothes onto the nearby table next to his bow’s sling. He removes his shoes and his kyudo-gi then slides into the bedsheets. He lays his head against the pillow and then glances back towards Genji.

“Are you sure you are happy living here?”

“Yes, I believe so. I think I chose well, for having my eyes closed.” 

Hanzo snorts. He runs a hand over his stubbled chin, rubs at his eyes, and then turns his head to look out the window. He can see the summer moon high in the sky. It looks no different than the moon he watched in Hanamura. The few twinkling stars he can see shine just as brightly. He misses the sakura tree that stood outside his room, with branches that hung near the window, framing his view of the night sky. 

Genji yawns. “As the Americans say, I’m beat. Good night, brother.” He exhales deeply and then adds, “Try to stop worrying. Get some sleep too. Tomorrow you get to work for a real life cowboy. You should be excited.”

Hanzo’s stomach ties into knots at the thought of what lies ahead, tomorrow. Questions race through his head. As much as his brother encourages him to stop worrying, to loosen his shoulders, to let the tension ease from his body like shrugging off a shawl, it isn’t as easy as it sounds. Not with the heavy weights he carries in his chest. 

He tries to close his eyes and drift off to sleep, but the sound of cicadas outside leaves him restless. In his home in Hanamura, the evening air always remained still excluding the gentle rustle of the sakura tree. Few sounds disrupted his rest. His body and his spirit used to feel so at peace within his childhood home until the Shimada Clan’s leader lay dead, mysteriously slain with a sword pierced through his heart. Murdered, Hanzo believed.

The tragedy shook the castle grounds. While their father was a dangerous man leading a dangerous business and succeeding at it, Hanzo always believed him untouchable. The feared Shimada dragon led not only his family but the business of criminal imports and exports with grace, expertise, and refinement. People loved him as easily as they hated him. Their father charmed his foes but also schemed to eliminate them in the same thought. He honored his family and his ancestors through his actions. He carried the legacy of the Shimada clan with effortless poise. Hanzo always admired his father and wanted to emulate him when the time came to take on the mantle as well. 

When Sojiro Shimada lay dead before him, stoic, even in death, Hanzo felt mentally prepared to shoulder the weight of history. He trained for this moment the entirety of his life. He knew how to run the family business, he knew the details of the finances, he knew the name of every vassal beneath his late father’s charge, and most importantly he knew the consequences of failure. All eyes turned to Hanzo in the wake of the tragedy, and Hanzo strove to honor the legacy of his father, his grandfather, and his grandfather’s father. Hundreds of years of history and ghosts of men past haunted him at night.

Emotionally, him and his brother felt abandoned. They lost their mother before Hanzo had turned ten, and now their father was gone before the elder brother had turned twenty-three. Everything that happened after came so quickly. Hanzo felt like he could barely keep up in order to keep pace with the demands of the family business. He needed to give orders, he needed to ensure investments were protected, and he needed to secure his own power before someone aimed for his heart as well. 

Hanzo managed for less than a year with few mistakes and only minor troubles. Asserting himself as Clan Shimada’s leader became routine in time. He honored the memory of Sojiro Shimada, his father, but he chose not to live in his father’s shadow, lest darkness consume him, too. 

His relationship with Genji faltered under new pressures. With the death of their father, Genji became reckless and disobedient. Hanzo’s most difficult problem was finding a way to reign in his brother, who seemed all too eager to disrupt his authority and challenge his orders. He never stopped loving his brother, but they argued more. They went days without speaking to each other. Genji began sneaking out of the Shimada grounds, even knocking a guard unconscious once in order to ensure his escape. Hanzo heard rumors about his brother visiting places in the nearby town that made Hanzo blush in shame and in shock. Brothels, bathhouses, bars. He even heard the rumor that Genji was no longer a virgin, and when word reached Clan Shimada’s ears, the elders brought forth Genji to explain himself. 

Hanzo loves his brother, and in hindsight, he can pinpoint the exact moment when Genji’s life was put into jeopardy. 

After coming home one morning hungover and in complete disarray, the guards took Genji, on Hanzo’s orders, to speak with the clan elders. There, in the court of Clan Shimada, Genji stood before Daisuke Nishimura, head elder on their mother’s side, and laughed in their faces when his purity was questioned. 

Hanzo remembers the arrogant smirk, the sneer, the mockery in his brother’s eyes. 

_Nishimura, I hate to be the one to inform you, but I have slept with more women than you have ever met. And it’s not only women who have shared my bed._

Hanzo remembers the embarrassment all too well. Never before had he been more ashamed of his brother. In hindsight, he regrets everything he said that day. Those words he could not take back once spoken, no matter how much Hanzo sought redemption every waking moment since he found Genji in the halls of Hanamura and pleaded for him to leave with him immediately and never look back. 

_Genji, cease this tantrum immediately. Must you desecrate the court of our ancestors, as well, with your dishonorable behavior._

Genji sobered. His response came swiftly, coldly, as if he had planned several steps ahead in this verbal duel. 

_Why would you disapprove, brother? I have to take part in the family business as well, somehow. Or did you not know about this council’s side business of prostitution? Yes, did they forget to tell you that they force men and women who have not paid Shimada protection money to serve in our brothel just outside of town to pay their debts? Did you not know that your precious Shimada honor was nothing but a sham, a ruse? Did you know that not even father knew about the faithful elders’s little business?_

The entire ordeal left Hanzo forsaken and disoriented. From there, the entire world he knew and understood came crashing down around him. Genji grew even more distant, the elders more petulant, their bickering replacing the thoughts in his own head. He grew jaded, angry, disillusioned. He often wondered if somehow he had been cursed by the Shimada ancestors. If, somehow, his leadership disappointed them. His heart ached with regret every time he saw a brief glimpse of his brother across the castle grounds. Meditating before the stream in his mother’s old garden beneath the sakura did nothing but make his heart ache in longing for days of the past, when he knew nothing but happiness and joy with his mother healthy and alive, his father leading Clan Shimada, and his brother beside him, sleeping or reading peacefully. 

Looking back, the disquiet he felt in his thoughts resulted from suspicion and an unsettling sense that he would never get those days back. He knew he would never be able to return to that time no matter how hard he prayed for its return. The telling signs, in hindsight, were not the fruit of a curse, but an omen that something was deeply wrong. The same recurring dream came to him over and over, and he should have heeded its warning far sooner. 

Two great dragon brothers, the dragon of the North wind and the dragon of the South, battling atop a mountain peak under darkened skies until one lay dead. The dragon of the South wind struck down his brother, who fell down to earth, shattering the land below. 

After the battle, the surviving dragon of the South realized what he had done in his rage. Solitude overwhelmed him as he wandered the earth seeking answers. The bereft dragon’s grief brought chaos and imbalance in his wake. He returned many years later to the mountain peak, weeped over the ashes of his lost brother, and in his inconsolable sorrow, ripped out his own heart to join his brother. 

In his dream Hanzo felt great sadness wash over him as he witnessed the dragon of the South wind realise what he had done. It made Hanzo’s chest tighten in the pain, he knew too well himself, of loss. He always woke in cold sweat, shaking, and in despair. 

In hindsight perhaps that is what the dream had been trying to convey to him through the dragon's own anguish; that he too, like the dragon of the South wind, would be lost if ever without his brother beside him. 

When the moment finally came to him in the form of Elder Nishimura demanding Hanzo duel his brother to the death in order to remove the stain upon the Shimada legacy once and for all, he knew in his heart what must be done. He left the council that evening composed and with aloof poise, but inside his heart broke to pieces. 

There was no question of what Hanzo needed to do. He had buried both of his parents and no matter how much he and Genji argued and disagreed, he would not bury his brother. Even if it meant abandoning everything they once loved. Even if it meant leaving behind the shrine his family tended to for thousands of years. Even if it meant leaving behind the sakura tree he used to sit under as a boy, with his brother as they played, read together, meditated, sat with their mother and father. Even if it meant he would never again see the sakura petals float on the river when winter melted into spring. 

Those memories would be hollow without Genji. 

Hanzo risked everything to come to America. He didn’t want to run for the rest of his life. He wouldn’t be able to continue lying to Genji about their reasons for their escape if they continued to run. California didn’t feel far enough away from the inevitable reach of the Shimada elders, but he could sense that Genji would not run farther without further truths being revealed. 

Genji did not know that the elders ordered Hanzo to kill him, and it would stay that way. He believed in the lie and he believed in the urgency in his brother’s voice. 

_We must leave now or they will send you away to a monastery far from here. They will imprison you and keep you chained if they must. I cannot allow that to happen to you, Genji, and for that, we must leave. Now. Tonight._

Hanzo plans to take the truth to the grave. 

Hanzo opens his eyes and blinks up at the ceiling. His eyes adjust slowly to the darkness of the room. He turns onto his side and sees his brother sleeping peacefully, sprawled out on the small bed. 

Rebuilding their relationship hasn’t been easy, but the warmth of being in each other’s good graces once more makes any difficulty worth bearing. For a time, he and Genji had been so distant, contempt blinding them of everything they loved about one another. Genji’s humor and lightheartedness no longer brings Hanzo shame, but instead reminds him of happier times past. His brother, his first and only friend, loved him once more. It makes settling into the desert town of Twenty Nine Palms easier, even if it brings out Genji’s talkative, flirtatious nature into full form. 

His brother is alive and well, and for that, he could tolerate isolation in the desert and even tolerate working for an obnoxious man like Jesse McCree. As his breathing finally begins to slow and as the tension in his muscles begins to ebb, he recalls the history books he used to read about American cowboys. The scruffy-looking bartender matched the iconic imagery he remembers seeing in almost every way. Yet, amongst the bluster, swagger, and arrogance, Hanzo saw sincerity in Jesse McCree’s amber colored eyes.

After running for so long, the honesty he found in the people of Twenty Nine Palms felt liberating. Perhaps Genji’s trust and enthusiasm was well placed. Perhaps there was some truth behind the promises of his brother’s novels that Hanzo had not been able to understand until now. Perhaps American gentlemen did come in the form of cowboys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this story, Genji is bisexual, I just thought I'd clarify.


	9. A Little Piece of Home on the Range

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months have passed, and Jesse McCree returns to Twenty Nine Palms after a supply run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for leaving kudos and comments! We hope you enjoy this chapter!

“Woah there girl, we’re almost home. I know you’re itchin’ for a big juicy apple.” 

Jesse runs his fingers through Wildfire’s auburn mane and sighs. The horse neighs and continues trotting along. He’s eager to be back on home turf. While he loved the desert wilds, being out here made him on edge with the rumors of Los Muertos and Deadlock Gang creeping into the Mojave. Though he knows he can take care of himself with Peacemaker, he'd rather not have any trouble (and he doesn’t want to have to visit Doctor Ziegler more than once a month for injuries, pleasant a woman she may be).

Up ahead, the dingy wooden signpost reads, Twenty Nine Palms: _10 mi, Las Vegas, NV: 200mi, Lake Havasu City: 160mi_. He tips his hat up and sees the sun rising just above the hills in the distance. He’ll be home just in time to meet Hanzo at his saloon before they have to open up for the lunch rush. He asked Hanzo to keep things in order for a few days while he made his supply run to Redlands, where his supplier holed up with goods received from port in Los Angeles or from further south in San Diego. After getting to know Hanzo over the past two months, he felt comfortable enough leaving his pride and joy in the hands of a man he felt he could trust. 

McCree didn’t order much this time around, but Carlos did ask about the nature of this month’s cargo. 

_Sake? Imported tea? This for a customer? Or did you finally hit a library and check out a book on somethin’ other than cowboys?_

_Hah, you’re funny. It’s for a customer._

_And the silk ribbons? You find yourself a nice little bonita?_

_Well, you’ve got it half right, pardner. Prettiest thing you ever did see. They just rolled into town from Japan._

_Amor a primera vista?_

_Oh boy, you don’t even know the half of it._

He brushed his fingers up against the leather of his saddlebags for probably the hundredth time since leaving the city, making sure the precious items were still safe. He feels excitement race through him at the thought of Hanzo’s face when McCree presents his gifts. He hasn’t felt this eager to return to the dustbowl of a town in the middle of the Mojave in a long time. Sure, he loved the town of Twenty Nine Palms, sure, he loved its quirky inhabitants, but something about Hanzo set his heart on fire. He has someone waiting for his return.

x X x

After leaving Wildfire at the town stable, Jesse walks up the two wooden steps leading into his saloon. He knocks gently on the wooden frame then pushes past the paneled wooden doors to step inside the bar while carrying his saddlebags. He scans the room and finds everything to be in order--in fact, the place looks cleaner than before he left. He smiles brightly. He knew he could rely on Hanzo.

Jesse heads to the counter while whistling a cheery tune. He glances up at the clock above the door to the kitchen and sees it’s nearly nine o’clock. He’s surprised he made it back before Hanzo was supposed to come in for the morning. He sets his bags onto the counter and starts sorting through the contents inside, searching for the metal tin of loose leaf tea. He’ll worry about the other items later. Hanzo will be in at any moment, and he has to prepare the tea just right or the entire trip will have been for naught. 

As he heads toward the kitchen, the door suddenly opens, and Jesse crashes into Hanzo without thinking. They stumble together, but Jesse’s quick fingers grab hold of Hanzo’s gray colored shirt before he falls. They steady each other while Jesse’s heart races in his chest. He didn’t expect Hanzo to be here this early. 

“Uh… sorry about that, uh, Hanzo.” Jesse quickly hides the tin of tea behind his back. “You’re early. You know you don’t have to get here till ten, right? You can sleep in y’know.”

“I know,” Hanzo says with a chuckle. “But I felt that this place needed some extra cleaning.”

Jesse blinks. “Well gosh, you didn’t have to, but I can’t say I’m displeased.” He steps back and surveys the restaurant again while scratching the back of his neck. “This place looks like it could damn well serve the Queen of England, if she ever came out here.” He turns his head back to Hanzo. “Thanks, Hanzo. You’ve been more than helpful ever since you started here. I appreciate you keepin’ this place under control. Hope no one gave you too much trouble.”

“The people of this town are quite spirited, but they are respectful. I didn’t do it alone.”

“Aw, there’s no need to be humble! Take the credit where it’s due, pardner.” Jesse grins. “But let me show you just how thankful I am for all the help you’ve been. Go put your feet up at the booth while I do somethin’ real quick. You’re in for a treat, Hanzo, I promise.” 

Hanzo raises a brow. He folds his arms across his chest. “We need to prepare today’s lunch special--”

“And we will, I already have it all planned out. Don’t you worry. Go on, go rest. You’ve been coverin’ for me for the past few days, let me reward your selfless efforts.” 

Jesse leaves before there’s any further protest from Hanzo. He heads back into the kitchen and starts to boil hot water. He opens the tea and looks down to see small pickled pink blossoms. He digs into his pocket and finds the response he received from the supplier in Japan explaining how to brew Sakurayu--cherry blossom tea. It seems simple enough from the instructions. Boil water, drop blossom buds into cup, pour hot water into cup, steep for five minutes. He raises the tin and breathes in the aromatic smell. It reminds Jesse of sea salt and the flowers in his mother’s old garden. 

As he stands at the stove, Jesse looks around the kitchen. Like the front dining area, the shelves and stock look far more organized than the state he left it. Upon closer inspection, Hanzo arranged everything into like groups. All of the spices have been alphabetized and the meats and vegetables have been chopped and prepared for today’s meals. Hanzo really didn’t have to do all this, but he did it anyway. Jesse’s smile only seems to widen. 

Perhaps Hanzo finally is beginning to settle into his new environment, McCree figures. Over the course of two months, McCree saw the discomfort and the “fish-out-of-water” attitude gradually dissipate. The first week, no doubt, was difficult. Getting used to the heat, the atmosphere, the humor--all of the little nuances native to their little town--took time. To his pleasure, Hanzo learned quickly, and Jesse didn’t need to explain anything twice. The town took to Hanzo and Genji with no trouble. McCree liked having an extra pair of hands. He couldn’t thank Angela enough for her suggestion. Further, he enjoyed having Hanzo around for company. It didn’t hurt, either, that Hanzo was a handsome man and easy on the eyes. 

Jesse hums to himself in approval. He can’t help but close his eyes and think about the first day Hanzo came into work at the saloon wearing western-style clothing. His jaw was on the floor, and he had to scramble to put himself back together, lest he scare off Hanzo. Ana had been generous enough to provide him with clothes, and he wondered if the woman could read Jesse so easily to know what he liked. 

Today, Hanzo wore a pair of brown slacks, Oxfords, and a button up gray shirt with suspenders. He looked like a man out of one of Amelie’s damn Macy’s catalogues she always had her head in. He looked like a man from the city, but McCree didn’t find it off-putting, and he knows Hanzo ain’t a tenderfoot. Hanzo seemed to be comfortable, too, with his new state of dress.

The tea kettle whistles, and Jesse’s attention returns to the moment he’s been waiting for. He places one cherry blossom petal bud into one of his ceramic mugs and pours water over it. Steam rises from the hot glass and the kitchen fills with the pleasant smell of what McCree presumes is cherry blossom. He’s never seen one of the trees before, but he imagines something mighty beautiful from the petals and smell alone. He pours himself a cup as well, eager to try it, too. Worst case scenario, Hanzo doesn’t like it, but at least McCree can experience it for himself. If Hanzo doesn’t like it, he can try laughing it off.

With everything on a wooden tray, McCree heads back into the dining area carefully. He sees Hanzo sitting at the plush half-circle booth pulling his long hair back into a low pony-tail with a tattered piece of yellow fabric. 

Jesse takes a deep breath and tries to calm his racing heart. For being a fearless, gunslinging outlaw in his youth, he’s shaking in his boots at the thought of rejection from Hanzo over tea. He’s a grown man and he feels like an awkward teenager. He tries not to let his own doubt become a self-fulfilling prophecy. It didn’t help that Hanzo had to look so damn handsome with his hair up. 

Jesse arrives at the table and clears his throat, and Hanzo looks up at him. Surprise spreads across Hanzo’s features. 

“Tea?”

“Uh. Yeah. You and me made up a little challenge, remember? First day you were in town? I said I’d import some better tea, and well, here it is. I got word of it’s arrival the other day, so I went to go pick it up with the rest of my usual supplies. I’m told it tastes pretty damn divine, so I hope you like it.” Jesse sets the tray down on the table and then joins Hanzo in the booth. He offers one of the mugs to Hanzo. “Smells pretty nice, if you ask me.” 

Hanzo stares down at the tea with his brows pursed, like he’s scrutinizing the contents. 

Jesse can’t help but sweat buckets. _Fuck, he doesn’t like it and he hasn’t even taken a sip!_

And then, suddenly, Hanzo’s cheeks turn as pink as the petals back in the tea tin. 

“This is Sakurayu.” 

“Uhm… Yeah. It is. Cherry blossom tea. I don’t know much about Japan, but my guy a couple town’s over said it’s one of the most special teas you can serve. I think cherry blossoms are big in Japan? I mean, me and him certainly aren’t experts on Japan either, so…” 

To Jesse’s relief, Hanzo raises the cup to his lips, blows off the steam, and takes several sips. He hums his approval, and Jesse is shocked to see a small upturn of Hanzo’s lips. 

“Sakurayu is a specialty tea, typically. The most commonly served tea is green tea. In Japanese, there is an expression ‘ocha wo nigosu.’ It literally translates to ‘make the tea muddy,’ but metaphorically it means ‘to be evasive or non-committal.’ Because green tea sometimes has a darker color, it is not served at weddings because of its appearance’s symbolic meaning. Instead, Sakurayu is served because of it’s brighter coloration, it’s more translucent clarity, and because cherry blossoms represent new beginnings.” 

Jesse sits there dumbfounded. He knows he’s not the smartest person in town, but he feels winded after the explanation. 

“So… uhm… what you’re saying is that this tea…” 

“It’s traditionally served at engagement celebrations or weddings.” 

“Oh.” 

Jesse stares down at the mug in his hand, and he’s stiff as a log. At first he still can’t comprehend what Hanzo explained, until it dawns on him like he walked straight into a tree. 

“Oh. So you’re saying I just gave you wedding tea.” 

“Yes.”

Jesse blinks and reaches up to the crown of his head, searching, only to find that his hat isn’t there. He frowns and feels his cheeks prickle with sensation. He wants to bury his head into his hands or crawl under a giant rock and never come out ever again. He can’t hide his embarrassment from Hanzo without making a further scene of it. Talk about lack of subtlety. He should have done his goddamn research.

A hand brushes over McCree’s as he tightly grips the mug. His head jerks up and he sees Hanzo cover his hand with his own. 

“Uh…” Jesse swallows thickly and tugs at his collar. _Is it just me or is it over a hundred degrees in my saloon?_

“It tastes delicious. Thank you for purchasing it,” Hanzo says softly. “I am rather fond of cherry blossoms--though who isn’t, I suppose, from Japan. This tea reminds me of home.”

“So you’re not… y’know, upset about it?”

“No, on the contrary I’m touched you would go to the trouble of importing it.” 

Jesse nods. He sits back in the booth and raises the cup to his lips. He takes a long sip, and Hanzo’s right, it does taste delicious. He’s never had anything like it. It’s both salty and sweet, and there’s no aftertaste. 

“You’re welcome, darlin’.” 

The tea becomes his own liquid courage. Jesse takes Hanzo’s left hand into his own and raises the back of it to his lips to press a gentle kiss there. His kisses trail up to Hanzo"s wrist, and his lips brush against the beginnings of the tattooed dragon. 

Jesse slowly raises his eyes to meet Hanzo’s, and the other man looks stunned. He feels a tremor run through Hanzo’s arm and Jesse can’t help but smirk. With renewed confidence, he winks at Hanzo. 

“I know it’s not easy comin’ to someplace new. Hell, I had a bit of a rough time adjusting to California myself. Air’s different, people are different. The desert in New Mexico sure as hell ain't the same as the Mojave. Anyone in town’ll tell ya, but I want you to hear it from me, Hanzo. People come here cause they’re lookin’ for somethin’ new. Somethin’ they can’t find elsewhere. I don’t really know what it is about this place, but it sure managed to attract a bunch of misfits from all over the world. Maybe we’re all suckers who got a little too much sun, but we’ve laid our roots here, and we don’t ever want to go back to where we were before. Twenty Nine Palms is home.”

Jesse squeezes Hanzo’s hand. “So I just want you and your brother to know you’re welcome. No one’s gonna ask why you came here, and frankly, I can tell you and Genji are good people.” His smirk softens. “That don’t mean I can’t bring a little bit of Japan here to you.” 

“Thank you, McCree,” Hanzo murmurs. “It means a great deal to me to hear you say that. Genji and I intend to stay.”

“Well good. We’re mighty lucky to have you both here.”

Jesse lowers his hand and lets his fingers linger as they part from Hanzo’s warm skin. They say nothing further, content in the silence that falls between them. They finish their cooling tea. 

After placing their emptied cups back onto the table, Hanzo curls a loose strand of his hair behind his ear. A small blush spreads across his high cheekbones, but this time, Hanzo smiles at him. Fully. It lasts for only a few brief moments, but Jesse will remember it always. He’ll remember the way his heart stopped and skipped in his chest. The moment makes his trip into the desert worth it--and it’s only the beginning of the gifts he has for Hanzo. 

Like the Sakurayu bud in the cup, Jesse’s feelings for Hanzo blossom in his heart. He may have made a mistake purchasing wedding tea--they’ll have a good laugh later, for good fun--but the symbolism Hanzo described applies. Unspoken desire for Hanzo, and with the shy look in Hanzo’s dark eyes, Jesse can’t help wondering if perhaps his feelings aren’t so outlandish after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to talk Overwatch with us? Hit me up and my co-author up on tumblr @ [bamfbugboy](http://bamfbugboy.tumblr.com) and @ [ ijaat!](http://ijaat.tumblr.com)


	10. The Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long day working in the saloon, Hanzo and Jesse put up their feet and sit down for a cold drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you who have been reading so far! I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

“It ain't much but I get to enjoy that nice breeze that you can’t really feel down at the ground level.” McCree opens his bedroom door for Hanzo, “Make yourself comfortable while I grab us a drink. Your brother said you two used to enjoy a drink after a long day trainin’. Well, we weren’t trainin’, sure, but I think you deserve a cold one after the insanity downstairs. Since we tried sake last time, I think it’s your turn to try something local. I have something that will feel cold goin’ down your throat and leave you feelin’ mighty relaxed by the time the bottle is empty. What’d’ya say?”

Hanzo sits down at one of two chairs near the small wooden table. He reaches up to rub at his neck. “I have never had American alcohol before, but I will have whatever you are having.” 

“One cold IPA comin’ right up,” McCree replies with a grin and heads back downstairs.

Hanzo nods and closes his eyes. The tension in his neck and shoulders seems to have only worsened. He works hard at his new job, certainly more than Genji appears to be at the forge with the Swede and the German. Hanzo is a trained, fit man, but he feels like he can barely keep up. How could Jesse have ever managed alone? 

At Hanamura, Hanzo knew how much the servants worked to keep the grounds clean, to make sure beds were made, to prepare each meal at designated hours of the day, and he respected the work they put in keeping the estate functioning. The servants made it look easy, and perhaps to an extent it was easier--McCree and Hanzo were the only two working at the saloon. The bar received more than just a handful of customers. Over the last two months Hanzo learned that everyone in town came to Jesse McCree’s bar at night. The nightlife focused on music, drinks, dancing, and storytelling. 

Despite the physical strain, Hanzo enjoys the work. He felt useful, and the people of Twenty Nine Palms have been quite forgiving of his mistakes. He could memorize historical dates, mathematical formulas, speak two languages fluently, and precisely shoot an arrow standing several meters away, but he finds memorizing orders and special requests difficult. The townspeople have been far too generous with their money, as well. At first Hanzo took fault with their charity. Even the wage McCree provides him seems outlandishly large for how much trouble he has added. 

When Jesse returns, he carries two chilled bottles made of dark glass. He plops down across from Hanzo, removes the cap on each, and then offers Hanzo his drink. 

Hanzo takes the bottle and then stares down at the label. He raises a brow. A picture of a woman sitting atop a plane greets him, and she wears a skin tight dress with bright blonde hair and ruby red lips. 

“Don’t judge, it tastes great, I promise.” McCree smirks. “IPA stands for India Pale Ale. It’s got a pretty heady flavor, typically, but I like this label ‘cause it’s local and it’s got a nice fruity taste. They make it with oranges and grapefruit grown in the valley.” McCree raises his bottle and clinks it with Hanzo’s. “Cheers.”

They both take a drink. Hanzo hums in approval as he lowers the bottle back to the table. He licks his lips, tasting grapefruit, and nods at McCree. Despite the quirky label, the liquor does quench his thirst. Despite working indoors, the sizzling summer heat still manages to wander into the saloon, and with more people, the summer chill isn’t able to join the party. 

“It tastes fine,” his upper lip quirks up slightly. “For American alcohol, of course.”

“I guess I’ll take this one as a victory then.” He tips his drink in Hanzo’s direction and winks, “That puts me at three wins, one loss, and one tie by my count.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes, but he can’t help but chuckle. “Why must Americans make everything into a competition?”

“Hey now, it ain't just us Americans. Don’t think I don’t hear that brother of yours makin’ his own fine competition ‘round here.”

“My brother is the exception to the rules. He has never taken to boundaries nor orders. He seems content to break rules rather than obey them.”

McCree lets out a loud, hearty laugh, “I think it's what younger brothers are supposed to do. Older brother has to look out for ‘em. Keep on the straight and narrow path, even if they’re kickin’ and screamin’.”

Hanzo snorts. “I take it you’re speaking from experience with your older brother?”

McCree stands from his chair and moves to the long desk in the corner of the room to pick up a small metal picture frame. “I reckon I am,” he says softly, with fondness in his voice. He moves back towards his chair and hands Hanzo the photograph. He smiles. “Your little brother may be a bit tough to handle but he was nowhere near the hellion I used to be. From sun up to sun down I was a hell-raisin’ terror. Whole state of New Mexico probably knew my name--Ma would holler it so loud tryin’ to get me to come on home.” He chuckles to himself, “Only one ever to tie me down was my brother, James. I’m sure I deserved lot more lickins than I got, but he was as patient as a saint with me though I was closer to a tornado tearin’ through town.”

Hanzo stares down at the black and white photo. James stands taller than his younger brother, but now, years later, Jesse looks like his spitting image. They both share a scruffy beard, and the stetson Jesse dons every day around town rests upon James’s head. In the time of the photo, Jesse is relatively clean shaven and looks rather young. He wears a beige serape that looks several sizes too big, but Hanzo recognizes it as the one he wears now. Their mother and father stand on either side of the two young men, with a hand on either of their shoulders. Jesse looks more like their father, while James looks like their mother. The family dog sits at their feet.

“That there picture is me and my folks, and James before he went away.” McCree motions to the photograph in Hanzo’s hands, “Hard to believe I was such a twig when I was younger ain’t it? But I think I filled out alright in the end. Ma always said I was a late bloomer.”

“Is your family still in New Mexico?”

“Last time I checked. Just outside of Santa Fe. Don’t go there much myself since...well, since James died, in fact. Felt wrong.” He takes a long drink.

“I-I’m sorry, Jesse.” Hanzo frowns. “It wasn’t my intention--”

Jesse’s somber mood lifts. He quirks a brow and chuckles. “Well I’ll be damned. You remembered my first name.” He grins back at Hanzo as he returns to his normal, charming self, “And boy does it sound a hell of a lot better comin’ from you.”

Hanzo sighs. The moment of seriousness has past, but as he takes another drink, he realizes that moving on is for the best. He wouldn’t want to linger on painful family memories either if McCree had asked him about the family he and Genji left behind in Japan. 

“Well, I think that’s enough doom and gloom for the night, don’tcha think? We’re up here enjoyin’ a good drink, and you’re great company. Didn't mean for our night to linger on the negative.”

Hanzo takes another sip from his drink. He realizes it’s almost empty, and his body feels comfortably warm and more relaxed. He wonders what younger Jesse McCree must have been like, and even just a moment’s pause pondering causes Hanzo to shudder. He knows of McCree’s tendency to hyperbolize, but something leads him to believing what was shared. 

Hanzo puts down the photograph on the table and without something to focus his attention on, his gaze shifts to the raucous cowboy in front of him. The cowboy leans back in his chair, teetering on the brink of falling back, but somehow manages to maintain his balance. His wind-swept, sandy brown hair falls in his face, but Hanzo can still see the mirth in McCree’s eyes. His focus wanders down McCree’s torso meticulously, and he can’t help but nitpick the man’s appearance. 

McCree’s beard and sideburns could use a trim. His plaid gray and blue shirt is wrinkled beyond repair, with the sleeves rolled up at his elbows. His arms are hairy--certainly more hairy than Hanzo’s ever seen on a man. He has some muscles, and Hanzo imagines they’re from time spent performing hard labor around the saloon and possibly his reckless youth. 

Hanzo lingers on the dirt under McCree’s fingernails and forearms; somehow the man manages to get dirty inside of his own bar without spending more than a minute out on the dusty road. He saw a bathtub on his way into McCree’s personal room--but did the man actually use it?

He folds his arms on the table and lets his thoughts wander while Jesse begins to explain tomorrow’s lunch and dinner specials. He can’t help but think back to the morning Jesse returned from the valley with Japanese goods he had specifically ordered for Hanzo’s appreciation. 

Hanzo enjoyed the sake they shared, and McCree’s enthusiasm for the taste seemed genuine. Then came the gift of tea… 

Despite Jesse’s mistake, Hanzo couldn’t help but take great delight in the Sakurayu. He only ever had the joy of drinking cherry blossom tea once to celebrate the marriage of his and Genji’s cousin Hinata with a man from Kyoto she had never met. The flavor reminded him of home, the blossomed petals in the teacup brought back memories he desperately hoped to bury, lest they bury _him_ in longing. They could never go back home, but it appeared Jesse wanted to bring pieces of home to California. 

_So I just want you and your brother to know you’re welcome. No one’s gonna ask why you came here, and frankly, I can tell you and Genji are good people...That don’t mean I can’t bring a little bit of Japan here to you._

Then came the kiss upon the back of Hanzo’s hand. The subdued look in Jesse’s golden brown eyes. The gratifying smirk, the charming quirk of his brows, the way he focused his gaze onto Hanzo and Hanzo alone. It fascinated him. The grip upon his hand was light, gentle, but the way Jesse composed himself spoke of more than infatuation. 

Hanzo raises his eyes away from the lines in the wooden table to Jesse’s face. He watches the cowboy speak with a smooth drawl. He can’t help but linger on Jesse’s mouth, the ever present grin and the sun-kissed skin of his cheeks. His heart thuds in his chest and his stomach twists into knots. He hates how the silly cowboy can rouse his interest so easily. He barely knows the man, regardless of how generous Jesse had been over the course of the last two months. He barely knows the man and he knows he should be more suspicious of McCree’s overactive flirtatious nature. 

Hanzo sighs. It doesn’t ease the conflict in his heart. Here he had criticized Genji for engaging with the citizens of Twenty Nine Palms. Here he had told him to keep his distance from the Swiss doctor, citing how necessary it was to stay as anonymous as possible. Even if he wants his brother to be happy, they have to be safe. Safety over happiness. 

Perhaps it’s cruel of him to let Genji to flirt with the idea of happiness. At any moment men sent by Clan Shimada could arrive in town, and they would have to leave. Genji would protest, they would argue, and they would only waste time. Perhaps the townspeople of Twenty Nine Palms would be good, brave people--perhaps they would fight for Hanzo and Genji’s happiness. Hanzo couldn’t ask them to sacrifice on their behalf. They didn’t come to America to shift the burden of their legacy onto someone else. Hanzo has nightmares about it frequently, and he always wakes in a cold sweat. 

As time has passed, it’s harder to think of the American as a stranger, as someone he must keep at arm’s length. Jesse’s outgoing, light-hearted personality is infectious, and Hanzo can’t help but find himself indulging in the free-spirited fun taking place every night at the cowboy’s bar. He can’t help but contemplate what it would be like to really get to know these people. To let them get to know Hanzo in turn. To have friends he could trust with his life. When he looks at Jesse it seems so easy to imagine the man smiling and telling him that everything would be alright.

x X x

“...So that’s the plan for the next few days.” Jesse clears his throat and leans back in his chair. He scratches at his beard and looks across the table to Hanzo, and he can’t help but blush under the intensity of Hanzo’s gaze. He sets his chair back onto all four feet and leans forward.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that darlin’,” Jesse purrs with a salacious smirk, “a man’s gonna get the wrong impression.” 

Hanzo snaps his attention back to McCree. He narrows his brows sharply and scoffs. “You look like you haven’t bathed in days. I’m aware we live in a desert but I know there is fresh water here.”

McCree’s jaw goes a bit slack for a moment as he stares at Hanzo, all suggestion and sensuality falling from his features. It’s his turn for the spotlight to shine on him, and he’s caught off guard by a clever deflection. He runs a hand over his beard and then through his hair, and his heart races in his chest. He bathed! He bathed every day, when he could! Maybe he didn’t always come out squeaky clean, maybe some nights he’d come upstairs and forget to wash at all, but damnit! He _bathed!_

His cheeks prickle with sensation and he can’t help but pout. Was Hanzo implying he didn’t look put together? Did Hanzo not find him attractive? He has to turn the tide somehow.

“Well alright, you’ve got me cornered there, Hanzo,” he pauses to chuckle nervously. “And really, I’m aware we have water, thank you kindly.” 

Jesse swallows thickly. He feels like a turtle on its goddamn back, struggling to get off of its shell and back onto its feet. 

“If you’re so concerned about my cleanliness,” he drawls, “why don’t you come on out with me to the local hot springs. Make sure I clean myself up to your high standards. I’ll even wash behind the ears and all that.”

He blurts it out before he even has a chance to realize what’s been said. His eyes widen and he wonders where the fuck his family’s so-called “famed” McCree charm went. 

Hanzo tilts his head in surprise. “There are hot springs near here?”

McCree blinks. “Uh, well yeah. Of course.” He sits up straighter and tries to recollect himself. “There’s this quaint little town a bit south of here near the mountains. Town’s literally called Desert Hot Springs, California. Maybe a couple day’s ride out on horseback.”

Jesse stares at Hanzo, hoping for a sign that he’s back on his feet again. It feels like time has slowed down, even though he damn well knows it hasn’t, as he waits for Hanzo to either accept or deny his invitation for a trip out of town. He can’t believe he even blurted it out without thinking.

“My brother and I used to take trips into the local mountainside near our home,” Hanzo explains. “We would pack everything we would need for the trek and we would spend a week in the forests, sleeping under the stars, sparring, practicing our aim with a bow and arrow, and when we finally reached the first peak, we would relax in the hot springs there and meditate at the nearby shrine. I found the moments quite enjoyable. Looking back, they are some of my fonder memories of our youth.” Hanzo smiles briefly. “Have you ever been to these hot springs near here?”

“Uh…” Jesse scratches the back of his neck. “Well honestly only once. I think only ever camped out there for a night or two. Sometimes when I go out on a supply run I’d pass by the town, but I usually try to take the fastest route back so I don’t head that way often since it's a bit out of the way.” _I never had someone to stay out there with unlike Jack Morrison, who takes Reyes out there for his lungs,_ he wants to add, but holds back. 

“So I guess I can’t say I’m an expert, but it’s a nice ride out of town, and since we’d be goin’ with the purpose of takin’ a relaxin’ trip, we could take the scenic route. I could show you the valleys nearby. Maybe I can prove to you that the desert ain’t so barren after all. Cause if ya ask me there’s somethin’ mighty special out there, and you can’t really experience it if you’re just cooped up inside. I know it don’t look like much, but there’s so much to explore out there, so much beauty--and you’ll never see a prettier sight than the sun settin’ in the west, with the stars comin’ out at night sparklin’ like diamonds...”

Jesse trails off. He wishes he hadn’t taken off his hat. He wants to hide under it and look less like a babblin’ brook of a fool. 

“Sorry. Guess I got a little sentimental there, my point bein’--”

“I’ll go. You’ve piqued my curiosity. I know every place has its charms, but I admit, McCree, you see one cactus, you’ve seen them all.” 

McCree smirks. He leans forward and for the first time all night he feels like he’s back on the offensive. “Well now. That sounds to me like you’re questioning my honest to God word. I suppose it’s safe to say that what I’m hearin’ is a challenge, Hanzo?”

“Call me biased and skeptical, if you must, but nothing is more beautiful than my homeland,” Hanzo says, his voice teaming with pride, nostalgia, and longing. “You cannot know for yourself unless you travel to Japan one day. Genji and I lived in a town away from the bigger cities, and we tended to an orchard of sakura trees--cherry blossoms--and I find it hard to believe that anything in this wasteland could compare to the way the blossoms fall from the branches, floating on the wind, on a fine summer day. Artists have tried to capture the essence of what the sakura means, poets and writers have tried to describe the feeling, but it is only something one can experience in order to truly know.”

“That all sounds mighty fine and good, Hanzo, but I think you haven’t given the Mojave much credit, and that’s alright. You’re not the first, you won’t be the last. We may not have cherry blossom trees, but I assure you, the Joshua Tree can hold up pretty damn fine herself. So since you’re so confident, let's make a little wager. If I take you out there and you’re completely underwhelmed, if you feel the same way after seein’ what I plan on showin’ you, then you win, and I’ll let you decide what I should import next. If I win, well, you gotta do somethin’ for me.”

“Your terms sound agreeable. I look forward to winning this bet.” 

“Oh, Hanzo,” McCree leans back in his chair and laughs. “I’m _so_ happy you’re a gamblin’ man.”

Jesse aims to win. There’s no question about it. His smile widens further. He’s going to win this bet and he’s going to claim his end of the wager. His prize will be the one thing he has pined for mighty bad: 

Permission to kiss Hanzo.


	11. A Story for the Ages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's poker night at the High Noon Saloon, and everyone gathers around for music, dancing, and a story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mentions of war violence, blood, injuries, and explicit sexual content. If any of the Arabic, German, or Spanish contained in this chapter is inaccurate, please leave a comment and let me know!
> 
> I wanted to give a quick shout out to my co-writer and beta who cheered me on while writing this very long chapter. Thanks, Zath! Also, a big hug to those of you on the McHanzo Discord and tumblr who have been supportive and kind. A big thanks to those of who you have been leaving kudos and comments. It means so much to me! Thank you.

"Ah, you kids these days, with your swing music. You should listen to the classics! Like Papa Jack Laine!" 

Ana Amari rolls her eye as she watches Reinhardt tower over the gramophone searching through Jesse McCree's collection of music. Lena and her daughter Fareeha stand beside her, pointing out songs they'd like to dance to. 

"Ah, fine, I can never say no to you, my little Pharah." Reinhardt ruffles Fareeha's raven hair while she grins. "Tomorrow night, the classics!" 

Ana smirks to herself as Reinhardt pulls Fareeha along to the makeshift dance floor in McCree's bar. Despite his bulky frame, he's light on his feet as he holds her daughter's small hands. She dances on his toes, letting him lead, and she's only ever sees her daughter smile this wide when she's spending time with the man who has become her father, not by blood, but by love and by devotion. 

"I do not believe I have ever met a man more spirited than Reinhardt," Genji says from the other side of the circular table, drawing her attention back to the card game. He holds his playing cards close to his chest and draws another. "Has he always been like this?" 

"Reinhardt's always had the biggest personality s'long as I've known him, but you'd have to ask Angela or Ana here, they've known him for longer," Jesse explains as he pushes a tall stack of blue chips towards the ever growing pile in the middle of the table. 

Angela smiles. She sits beside Genji with her hand clasping her mug of steeping tea. "Reinhardt has known Ana for longer than me." 

"Perhaps by only a few months, at most." 

"Say, I don't think you've ever really shared how you met the big guy, anyways," Jesse says while scratching his beard. "When did you meet him?" 

Ana glances at her cards then back at the people sitting with her. She has made quick work of studying her opponents, as she does every time they all agree to play poker. The results are always the same, but they somehow play anyways. Genji and Hanzo, though new additions to the group, were easy enough to read. Genji seemed more familiar with the card game's strategy and rules, while the elder brother, despite struggling, is far too stubborn to fold when he should. Jesse, of course, plays like he's at a rodeo, with no grace, all cockiness. Angela knows better. She doesn't play. Torbjörn is too drunk. Jack's too honest, and he's easiest to read. Gabriel and Amelie, perhaps, have always been her toughest competition. 

Tonight, her bluff has worked like it usually does. She feigned distraction, watching her daughter and Reinhardt dance, letting them all think she wasn't paying attention to the cards being played. Her full house, two Kings, three fours, while not the highest play by any stretch of the imagination, are certainly better, she guesses, than what the others have in their hands. 

"Let me call this hand, and then I will tell the story." 

It's the right time to call the game for the night. She's about to make off like a bandit, as Jesse will predictably remark. 

Everyone pays up and shows their cards. Resounding groans ring out from Jesse and Gabriel, who lost to Ana by a hair. A double pair from Jesse, only they are lower than hers, and a pair of Aces from Gabriel. Everyone else had nothing of note. 

"Makin' off like a bandit, as per usual, ma'am." 

"I have to recoup the money I spend here at your saloon, Jesse." 

Jesse chuckles and leans back in his chair. "I reckon it evens out in the end." 

Before Ana begins to share, Jesse and Hanzo get up and grab everyone a refill on their respective drinks. Tequila for Gabriel, a beer for Jesse and Jack, a stout for Torbjörn, red wine for Amelie and Ana, and leftover sake for Hanzo and Genji. They all settle in, gathered around Ana at the table like she's about to tell a campfire story--or perhaps, in this case, it’s a ghost story.

"Much like you both, Jack, Gabriel, Reinhardt and I met during the war. A different front, different years. Before America declared war upon Germany." 

"Really?" Jack leans forward his brows pursed. "But, Egypt was..." 

"Allied with England at the time, yes, I know. When Reinhardt and I met, we were on opposite sides of the war." 

"That sounds mighty awkward." Jesse laughs nervously. "I uh... I hope you're not the one who took his eye." 

"No, I was not," Ana says matter-of-factly.

"So you two met on the opposite sides of a battle, or...?" 

Ana chuckles. "Let me start at the beginning, alright?" 

Everyone nods in agreement. Those seated at the table grow quiet. Even the music feels distant to Ana, but her gaze falls past Genji, who sits across from her, to Reinhardt, who continues to dance with their daughter. He smiles at her, laughs, and spins Fareeha in his arms. She can't help but smile back. 

"The year was 1916, and I had recently been recruited to serve in the Egyptian Expeditionary Force. I had been fighting in Egypt as a sniper for nearly two years. I remember how much it rained that fall in southern Germany, and I was tasked with a special reconnaissance mission. The Triple Entente wanted to open a southern front through Austria from northern Italy, and it was my job to gather all information I could about enemy encampments all the way from Salzburg to Munich..."

x X x

_Austria-Hungary, October 1916_

Ana Amari lays inside of an abandoned church’s bell tower just outside of Salzburg, staring through the iron sight scope of her Pattern 1914 Enfield rifle. Nothing has passed her vision except for the occasional rodent crossing the dirt road leading up to the building. The surrounding forest has remained still. The townspeople from the local village outside of the city have all but left to the cities to assist in the war front. She would rather report no signs of Central Powers activity to her commanding officer. She can’t imagine this forest becoming a no-man’s wasteland, with trenches dug six-feet deep, with fire burning a path for tanks, with the sound of dynamite carving the land under its bidding. 

While the front is kilometers away to the south, war has displaced communities and altered the landscape. Since parachuting behind enemy lines to begin her mission three weeks ago near Munich, she has not met one civilian on her trek south. The silence of the forest doesn’t bother her--in fact, she welcomed it with relief. She has served in the trenches long enough, seen men and women die, and she has already sacrificed so much in this war--her right eye being the most physical sacrifice, taken by one of Imperial Germany’s own snipers. 

Losing her eye didn’t compare to two years separation from her daughter, Fareeha. She hasn’t seen her daughter since leaving her at an all-girl’s boarding school in London the day before she was sent with her regiment to the front lines--two years ago. Ana glances at the gold framed picture resting against the tower’s stone wall. She and Fareeha stand together, smiling for the camera. It’s the only recent photo she has of her daughter, who is six years old in the picture. Fareeha hadn’t grown any taller in the time spent between when it was taken and when Ana left to fight, but her daughter no doubt will look different since last they saw one another. Time and distance always seemed to take its toll. 

Ana’s heart pangs in her chest. Her deepest regret is leaving her relationship with her daughter frayed and fractured--Fareeha didn’t want to go to a new school, and she didn’t want her mother to leave. Ana had no time to explain that even if she had a choice of staying home or fighting, she would fight regardless. Her daughter didn’t understand the significance of having a marksman in the back-line of combat, and she didn’t intend to explain to a ten year old. She couldn’t explain to Fareeha the circumstances of the war, and she couldn’t make the young girl understand why she had to go. She only hopes God will forgive her for the lives she takes to protect the soldiers she fights alongside. 

Movement down on the dirt road snaps her attention back into the present, to her duty. Through the falling rain Ana sees not an animal crossing the road, but a large, hulking man. She peers through the scope and sees a silver German insignia pinned to the breast of his open olive green uniform jacket. He visibly limps, with blood soaked through the cloth covering his right thigh and his left calf. Blood cakes his matted blonde hair and a bloodied white cloth covers his forehead and left eye. He drags his left leg, using a large iron hammer as a crutch. 

He is the first person Ana has seen since parachuting behind enemy lines. The first enemy combatant she has seen since fighting on the western front. The man poses no threat in this state, but her finger still falls to the trigger of her rifle. From the amount of blood soaked into his clothes, no doubt he stands at Death’s door. He is several days walk from any front she is aware of, and despite the clear muscular strength in his broad torso and large legs, the will is leaving him. He stops at the beginning of the stone stairs leading up to the church’s wooden doors, and Ana has a clear, perfect head shot. 

She could end his suffering, here and now. She could send his soul into the waiting arms of God, but her finger hesitates on the trigger long enough for the man to raise his head to look up at the bell tower where she rests. Their eyes meet, blue to gold, and his bruised face shows no recognition. In the moment before pressing against the trigger, Ana sees the German smile, and his lips part. His large body sways under his own weight, he takes one step forward, staggers, and then collapses at the foot of the stone path.

x X x

“So you’re saying you almost _shot_ Reinhardt!?” Jesse interjects with his jaw dropped.

“I considered it,” Ana says calmly. She takes a drink from her wineglass and then sighs. “He was my enemy on the brink of death, and I pitied him. I did not take the shot because I saw life still in him. Looking back, I am grateful for sparing his life.” 

Jesse nods and looks over to Reinhardt, whose bellowing laughter drowns out the song playing on the gramophone. “I think we can all drink to that.”

x X x

Christian churches, like mosques, provide sanctuary to those who enter its doors. She does not know if this German expected to find salvation while standing at the edge of eternal oblivion, but Ana nonetheless climbs down from her roost and brings him inside, out of the rain. She pushes aside abandoned pews, lights the candles standing on the altar with a match, and lays him down on top of the intricately painted stone ground--a mosaic of a scene from the Bible.

The conscious man moans and utters German she cannot understand. It’s one thing to provide him shelter from the storm, but it’s another thing to stay here despite the fact that this place is now possibly compromised. She learned field medical training back in Egypt years ago. Snipers often worked in pairs or worked alone, and for the sake of the greater work being done, one could not always retreat and seek medical attention. One needed to be able to field dress wounds on one’s own. She can’t help but take stock of his wounds. She kneels down beside him and carefully pulls away the torn shirt he used to limit the blood flow from his forehead. She peels the cloth off and her stomach flips.

A large gash cuts across his left cheek, up through his eye, up his brow to his forehead. His left eye is beyond saving. There’s nothing she can do for him. The man needs extensive treatment, and she has no idea how long ago these wounds were inflicted. He very well could be septic as well as pneumonia from the weather. Then there’s two wounds in either of his legs. Somehow he managed to walk with two bullets in him in the mud and rain: one in his thigh, another in his calf. There’s no doubt he has lost so much blood, likely leaving a trail for trackers to find. 

Did he get separated from his own platoon? Would soldiers come looking for him? Or did he leave the war front and desert?

Ana unclasps the lower half of her headscarf covering her mouth and nose. She touches his cheek. Her gloved fingers brush over bruises and scars. His good eye opens and he stares up at her, clearly disoriented and delirious. She takes his larger hand into her own and holds it. Tears well into his good eye. 

“Göttin.” 

Ana squeezes his hand. She knows very little German, and surely this man knows no Arabic. 

“Sprechen Sie Englisch?”

He nods slowly. 

Ana pulls the satchel slung across her back over her shoulder and dumps the contents onto the floor beside him. “I am going to help you. You are in terrible shape. It will hurt. Your left eye is gone. You will likely never be able to see out of it again. I may not be able to save you, you have lost so much blood.” 

“Bitte.” 

Ana swallows thickly. She runs a hand over her face. She sighs. He needs a surgeon--something she is most certainly not. She has nothing but a flask of English ale to sterilize her tools with, a knife she could use to cauterize his wounds if she builds a fire, and she could perhaps use… she looks around. Her eye falls to a forgotten Bible sitting amongst the frozen-in-time remains of the church. It’s not ideal, but it’s something for him to bite down on. 

Ana pulls her leather gloves off. She unscrews the cap on her flask and offers him a long drink.

“You look like a strong man, you have made it this far, but I need to clean and mend the gash on your face. It will hurt. You must not scream. Do you understand?” 

He nods, but there’s fear in his blue eye. 

Ana begins to pour leftover ale onto her medical tools. She’ll have to make do with what she has. It will have to be enough. 

Ana cups his good cheek once more. He’s so warm, on fire, sweating like he’s walked for hours in the desert. “What is your name?” 

“R-Rein…,” he licks his dry lips. “Reinhardt Wilhelm.” 

“Reinhardt, my name is Ana Amari,” she says softly, “and I need you to trust me. I cannot stop, even when it becomes too much. You have lost too much blood. If I wait any longer, I’m afraid you will not make it. Forgive me, I have nothing to give you for the pain, but I will do all I can to help take care of you.” 

Ana stands and retrieves the Bible. She returns and offers it to him. He takes it into his mouth as something to bite down through the pain that will surely follow. She bows her head and stares down into his eye. 

“As’alullaahal-‘Adheema Rabbal-‘Arshil-‘Adheemi ‘an yashfiyaka.” 

She recites the prayer seven more times in Arabic.

“May God give me strength.”

x X x

“Jesus Christ, are you telling us you pulled out Reinhardt’s fucking eye?”

“No, of course not, Gabriel. I cleaned his wound, stitched back together flesh, took bullets out of his legs, but I did not have the proper equipment to give him his glass eye.” Ana looks across the table to Angela, who stares into her teacup. “Let me tell the story as it happened, in order.” 

Before Ana continues, Lena, Fareeha, and Reinhardt come to their table with raised brows. 

“My ears burn! Is someone talking about me?” Reinhardt asks.

“Ana was just telling us about how you both first met,” Jesse explains. “Quite the story so far.” 

“Ah,” Reinhardt’s broad grin melts into a small smile. “I know this story well.” 

“Pull up a chair, big guy. There’s plenty of room.” 

Ana glances to Lena and Fareeha. Lena’s eyes widen in understanding. She smiles brightly and wraps her arm around Fareeha’s shoulder. 

“I think Fareeha and I are going to head out. Dancing wore us out, didn’t it luv?” 

“What? _No!_ I want to hear this story.” 

“No,” Ana sighs. “I will tell you someday, but you are far too young. You also have to finish reading your book. Do not think for one moment I do not speak with Miss Lacroix about your schoolwork.” 

“Mother--” 

“No, habibti. You have stayed out late enough tonight.” 

Fareeha frowns, and Ana cannot help but smile back. 

“Would you like me to go with you, Miss Oxton?”

“Oh, no, Reinhardt! I’ll make sure Fareeha finishes her homework and I’ll be there till you and Mrs. Amari comes home. I need to put my feet up. Stay. If you’re part of this story then stay and help tell it.” 

Color blossoms in Reinhardt’s pale cheeks. He scratches his neck and nods. “Very well, danke,” he kneels down and pulls Fareeha into a tight hug. “Guten nacht, my little Pharah.”

Fareeha kisses his cheek. “Guten nacht, vater.”

The color deepens in Reinhardt’s cheeks. While Fareeha is not Reinhardt’s daughter by blood, he has been as close to a father as one can be. Ana never limited her daughters thinking to strict definitions of family. Reinhardt loves Fareeha, and he is good, kind, and gentle with her. 

Reinhardt joins them at the table, pulling up a chair that’s almost too small for him. He sits between Jack and Ana, and Jesse fetches him a drink. 

Their eyes meet once more, blue to gold. He has only his right eye, and she only has her left. 

“What part are you at?” 

“I just finished telling them about how I tended to your injuries.” 

“Ah, ja,” Reinhardt smiles half-heartedly. Jesse returns with a stein of beer, and Reinhardt thanks him. “I was almost gone from this world. But Ana, she…” he turns to her and wraps his arm around her waist. “She was my salvation. I owe her my life, and with every breath I have taken since that day, I have tried to honor her.” 

Ana smiles. “Charmer.” She clears her throat. “Now, I will spare you all the details, but as you know, I did save Reinhardt’s life…”

x X x

The rain continues on through the evening without any sign of stopping. It mingled with the sound of muffled screaming and moaning in pain, but now, the sound of raindrops hitting the wooden church roof helps her relax after the ordeal. She’s tired, but she cannot sleep. It took several hours to clean and stitch up every major wound on Reinhardt’s body. Her work is far from perfect, but it will do for now. He will need to eventually be able to move to walk to a real medical facility.

The German finally rests, exhausted from her makeshift surgery. His eye took a beating. Luckily, the bullets in his legs had cleanly exited his flesh, piercing only muscle and missing major arteries. Muscle can be mended with time. For now, he will live. 

Ana leans against the wall near the altar where there is candlelight. She removed her dark blue headscarf long ago, and she runs her fingers idly over her dark braided hair. 

By bringing this man into the church, she made a promise to stay with him. She couldn’t mend his wounds and then leave him here. She vowed before God to help him--even if he is the enemy. Even if this entire situation impedes upon her mission. She presses her head against the cool stone wall. 

The mission. 

Her plan going into this assignment was to perform the reconnaissance, signal for extraction, and then put in a request for shore leave to see her daughter. 

Ana hopes her daughter will forgive her for pushing off their reunion further. 

“Wasser...” 

Ana opens her eye. The German holds his hand into the air, as if reaching out to some invisible person. She moves to his side and cups his cheek, hoping to help him focus on her. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Wasser,” he pleads. 

“Water?” 

He nods. He looks parched. 

She fetches her canteen, unscrews the cap, and offers it to him. She cups the back of his head, tilting it forward, and holds the canteen to his lips. “Drink. Slowly. Your body has lost much blood. You will need to replenish your liquids.” 

Reinhardt drinks until he leans away, satisfied. “Danke,” he murmurs. 

Ana folds her headscarf and places it under his head as a makeshift pillow. She eases his head back down and smoothes his thick blonde hair that reminds her of a lion’s mane. 

“Meine Göttin.” 

Ana frowns. “I don’t speak German. I’m sorry.” 

“It means ‘my goddess.’” 

Her hand stops running through his hair. Her cheeks flush and her eye dilates in the faint light. She purses her brows. “I am no goddess.” 

“You are as beautiful and as kind as one.” He covers the hand on her cheek with his own larger palm. “Like Isis.” 

Ana scoffs. What did this man know of the goddess? 

“Perhaps I was not cut into fourteen pieces, but you have put me back together nonetheless, as Isis did for Osiris.” 

“You know of Egyptian mythology?” 

“A little. I know Isis was brave and that she did not stop searching for the body of her husband Osiris until he was alive once more.” Reinhardt chuckles weakly, “I have read and enjoyed a good many books. I admire a heroic story.”

“If you enjoy stories so much, why don’t you explain to me what happened.” 

Reinhardt’s smile fades, but he leans into her palm and does not break her gaze. “You know I am German. I…” 

“We may be enemies but I did not tend to your injuries only to kill you.” 

“Ah, good to know, ja?” Despite the grimace from his laughter, the mirth remains in his tone. “I left the army. I have abandoned my post. My comrades. I am filled with shame and yet… I do not regret my decision to leave.” 

Ana does not judge. Everyone has their reasons. 

“What happened?” 

“I love my home, Deutschland. I am from Stuttgart. Very far from here. I joined the army at the beginning of the war. I wanted to fight. I love my country, but much has changed. I left because my fellow comrades, my brothers…” Reinhardt sighs. “They acted dishonorably to the enemies at our doorstep and our own people. Fellow Germans! I… They looted the towns we passed through. They terrorized little villages on the border between Alsace and Germany, and I could not participate any further. I left in the dead of night. I became a traitor. Many would call me a coward. I ran into the mountains and along the way, I spotted fellow deserters, Germans, harassing a family nestled in the hills near here. The estate had money, a great deal of valuable items. The family still lived there. I had to stop them, and I did so with my hammer. They cut my face with a knife. I defeated them but I… I continued wandering, and then as I neared the Austria-Hungary border, I was shot by a sniper. Twice. I kept my head down and crawled as far away as I could. I staggered for days until I remember seeing you there in the bell tower. Then I woke up here, with you.”

Ana nods. She places her hand against his bandaged forehead and to her relief he’s no longer sweating and burning up. 

“You are very lucky.” 

“Ja, you are right. I did not know how much longer I could go.” 

Ana sits back on her calves and sighs. She looks up at the vaulted ceiling, where a wrought-iron chandelier rests over the pews. Beautiful stained-glass windows depict the story of Christ from his birth, to his crucifixion, and to his resurrection. 

“Do you believe in God, Ms. Amari?” 

Ana does not turn to look at Reinhardt. She watches raindrops slide down the colored glass that creates shadows down onto them both.

“Yes, I do.” 

A hand brushes against her knee, and she glances down to see Reinhardt extending his own. His palm open, his fingers calloused and worn from battle. She hesitates, but when her palm slides over his, flesh against flesh, she lets out a sigh. 

“And you?” Ana asks softly. 

“‘If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.’” He chuckles quietly. “I can recite a verse or two. My family was religious. They wanted me to memorize so much of the book, but I wanted to read Goethe, Beowulf, and Shakespeare instead.” 

The rain begins to pick up again, pounding hard against the roof. They hear thunder rumble in the distance like a lion’s roar. 

“But do you believe?” 

Reinhardt falls quiet. He stares up at the ceiling and then shrugs. “Sometimes.” 

His honesty surprises her. In this holy place, where he sought shelter, where he depended upon miracles for his life, he has the bravery to question. 

“I try to put my faith in people.” 

“You are very bold to do that.” 

It rings far more bitter in her ears than she wanted it to sound. Ana frowns. So many people in her life have let her down. She has let her own daughter down countless times. Who is she to judge someone’s beliefs or lack thereof with the blood on her hands? When in the quiet of night, she herself has asked for forgiveness even when her faith in a better tomorrow was at its lowest point.

“Perhaps, but now, today... I believe it is well placed.”

x X x

The clouds break after the fourth day spent at the church. A temporary pause in the storm that has pelted the area since she crossed the border into Austria-Hungary.

Ana climbs up the wooden stairs and sits at the top of the bell tower roost with her rifle while Reinhardt sleeps. He has faded in and out of consciousness over the past week. Luckily, the storm has erased any trace of his journey to this church. The chance that other soldiers may pass the church and seek shelter as well has kept her from finding peaceful rest. The possibility that the man resting amongst the displaced pews below could turn on her leaves her on edge. No doubt by now Reinhardt has guessed that she does not fight on the side of the Turks. 

What would happen when the large bear of a man would be able to stand and walk again? Would they part as enemies? As friends? Even if he has abandoned his post, even if he expressed disapproval of the crimes some fellow soldiers have committed, would he let an enemy combatant just leave? Would she?

A loud grunt stirs Ana from her worries. She twists sharply and raises her rifle, only to see the German panting as he climbs the stairs to the top of the bell tower. 

“What are you doing!” She rushes to his side and helps him stand up straight once his feet touch stone. “Are you a fool? Your injuries have hardly begun to heal. I did not put you back together only for you to undo my work.”

“Entschuldigung,” Reinhardt mumbles. “I… I wanted to sit with you.”

“You could have called for me.” 

“Yes, I know. I have been told my voice carries. But I wanted to enjoy the view. I’m afraid I can only recount the story of Christmas and Easter so many times.” 

Ana shakes her head but she can’t help but smile. She helps him sit down against one of the stone pillars and then returns to her position by the tower’s opening with her rifle in her lap. 

“I see the rain has stopped, at last. I have missed the sunlight.” 

During her first few months in Europe, the colder weather took adjustment, but she enjoyed the change in climate. It never rained back in her home country of Egypt, and if it did, she could never bear the humidity. Amidst the war, her pleasure quickly became disdain. The thick fog on the western front made her job difficult. The mud in the trenches made her fellow soldiers sick. Then when summer ebbed into fall and winter, the rainstorms only increased. Flooded trenches, the freezing chill from hail, snow, and frostbite. She’s thankful to not have been sent to the Russian front.

“She is very pretty. Very adorable.” 

Ana glances back to the German. “Excuse me?” 

Reinhardt laughs sheepishly and gestures to Ana’s side. “The girl in the photo. Is she your younger sister? Daughter?”

Ana follows his gesture to the framed photo she left at her side. She frowns. There’s no use hiding or denying it. She picks it up and cradles it in her hands. 

“My daughter.” 

“She is as beautiful as her mother.” Reinhardt smiles. “How old is she?”

“Six in this photo. She’s eight now.”

“You must miss her dearly.”

“Every day. I have not seen her in two years.” 

Reinhardt’s smile fades immediately. He sits up straighter and scratches his neck. His pale face turns pink. “Ah…Es tut mir leid. My manners, they are terrible.” 

“It’s fine, I will hopefully be seeing her again soon.” 

“What is her name?” 

“Fareeha. It means ‘happy’ in Arabic.” 

“A fitting name. She has a cute smile.”

“Thank you.” 

It’s one of the only photos she has of herself and her daughter, together. It’s the only photo she has of herself where she’s smiling, too. Times were not happier then, but they were simpler. They always had each other. 

“‘There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots, the other, wings.’”

The sound of a crow turns her attention away from the photo to the forest outside. She surveys the lay of the land before her instinctively, and only once she is satisfied that there is nothing but birds and animals does she turn her head back to Reinhardt. 

“You are a sniper?”

“Yes--and before you ask, no, I did not shoot you.” 

“I assumed as much. I was careless. Distracted.” His lips quirk into a smile again. “Though I shall admit, I am a rather large target.” 

Reinhardt chuckles, and his laughter is infectious. Ana’s stoic face cracks, and she bursts into laughter. She can’t help but find it absurdly humorous as well, no matter how morbid.

x X x

“Wait, _wait._ Please stop,” Hanzo interjects. “Are you saying that you two made light of Reinhardt being a giant target?”

“We both thought it was very funny,” Ana says with a shrug.

“I laughed so hard my stitches almost tore!”

Hanzo gapes when Reinhardt and Ana begin to giggle together about it. 

“I mean… I can laugh at some pretty dark shit,” Jesse shrugs and takes a drag from his cigar. He whistles a tune and then begins to sing, “‘Always look the bright side of life. For life is quite absurd, and death's the final word. You must always face the curtain with a bow!’”

Hanzo shakes his head. “Ridiculous,” he grumbles.

“It’s not unusual, Hanzo,” Jack says with a wry smile. “Our platoon had a running pool of who could get the most headshots. We even used to have this fake head on a stick we’d use to draw sniper fire so one of the other soldiers could sneak around and take out enemy sniper. We used to dress it up like our CO, remember, Gabe?”

“It was pretty fucking funny.” Gabriel smirks. “Though I don't think he found it very humorous when he found out how we were using his likeness considering how hard we all had our asses handed to us after.”

“Sometimes when you’re out there on the battlefield, a little humor--even gallow’s humor--helps take the edge off. Reminds us all that we’re people. We needed a reminder that we could still laugh even in the face of war.” Jack smiles half-heartedly. “I think it helped keep some of us together when it got really bad.”

“‘Life's a piece of shit, when you look at it. Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true, you'll see it's all a show. Keep 'em laughing as you go. Just remember that the last laugh is on you!’”

Hanzo shoves Jesse in the shoulder, and the cowboy bursts into laughter. 

“That’s the spirit!”

x X x

Once their laughter dies, Reinhardt wipes a tear from his eye and smiles broadly at Ana.

“I owe you my life, Fräulein,” he sighs. “You did not have to come down from this roost and bring me inside. You could have left me. You could have ended my suffering, but you took me in. I… I cannot thank you enough.” 

“You are not completely healed yet, Reinhardt. You still need a proper doctor to look at your eye.” 

“Yes, I know, but for now, I am very happy to be alive.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

“I mean what I say, Göttin, I owe you a life debt.”

“You do not mean that. You are simply reacting to a near-death experience.” 

Reinhardt chuckles. He folds his hands against his stomach. “I can understand your doubts. You do not know me, nor my family, but where I am from, when we say ‘I owe you a life debt’, we mean it.” 

Ana resists the temptation to roll her eye. She has heard many tall tales told by men.

“I carry my family name with dignity and honor. It is why I could not commit the crimes my fellow countrymen happily partook in. It is why I could not stand by and let a family be robbed.” 

She looks into his blue eye and sees fire. The hottest flames burn blue.

“I know you serve with the other side, but I do not care.” He shifts his weight, as if to stand once more, and Ana moves to his side before he can try. He slumps back down against the stone with a grunt. “If I could kneel, I would kneel at your feet and swear to you my life, my loyalty, my service. I know you have no reason to trust me, Fräulein, but when I am well, when I am able to stand tall once more, it will be because you saved my life. I will never forget that. I will never take your compassion lightly, nor will I waste your kindness.”

His words leave her stunned and bereft of anything to say. Sincerity and humility she has never seen from another person. Yes, she did save his life; yes, she didn’t have to. She folds her arms across her chest and looks away. She has no reason to believe him. She has known heartbreak born from placing her trust into another wrongfully.

Ana raises her rifle and peers through the scope to return her focus to her watch. 

“We will see how you feel once you are better.”

x X x

“It sounds like you had already fallen in love,” Genji says with his chin in his hands.

Reinhardt reaches for her hand and takes it. He squeezes it and brings it to his lips. He kisses the back of it and sighs. “Yes, I knew I loved her--meine Göttin. Who could not? She came to me at Death’s door, pulled me from the brink, and I have since dedicated my life to her.” 

“What about you, Ana?” Jesse asks. “When did you know?” 

“Not as quickly as Reinhardt,” she says quietly. “I’m afraid I was oblivious for awhile.” 

“I find that hard to believe, ma’am. Reinhardt sounds like he was rather obvious about it.” 

Ana shrugs. “At the time I expected for Reinhardt and I to part shortly after he began to heal. I signaled for extraction and I expected for a fellow soldier to meet me. I found Reinhardt charming and friendly for someone I had expected to be my enemy, but I knew that our time together would be temporary until my extraction came. Extraction never happened--no one ever came. I later learned that the escort had been killed while scouting the area--killed not by a German or an Austrian, but by a rather terrible fall during the storm’s return. I didn’t know at the time.”

Genji frowns. “So you didn’t feel anything for Reinhardt?” 

“I did not say that,” Ana replies with a chuckle. “I did fall in love with him. I… I admit I was hesitant at the time to realize it. I thought that I had seen too much darkness, that I had only enough love in my heart to give to Fareeha. I thought my time for passion was long past…”

x X x

A month passes. Reinhardt’s injuries have ebbed, and now he can walk once more, with help. At first it’s difficult helping him move around--he has triple her weight in muscle mass and he’s taller than her, but he’s patient. He never once complains. He never once raises his voice in anger or frustration. He showers her with his thanks and appreciation, and it repeatedly catches her off guard.

“I am doing nothing special, Reinhardt. I am only fulfilling the promise I made to you.”

Ana doesn’t understand why he smiles when she says it; she doesn’t understand why the sight makes her chest tighten.

Reinhardt begins to help around their church shelter, in what ways he can. He cannot go out into the forest and hunt for their meals, so he builds fires using broken down pews and prepares their meals. When Ana needs rest after going too many hours without sleep, he keeps watch and looks after her. Each time she wakes she expects a knife at her throat--instead, no such thing happens. Instead, she wakes to Reinhardt sitting beside her, each time, staring down at her with his soft smiles. 

Ana lets him talk to fill the silence. Reinhardt shares about his family back in Stuttgart; his mother a baker, his father a carpenter and blacksmith. They taught him everything he knows, and his grand-father taught him a love of books and fairy-tales. He tells her stories late at night, when the moonlight peers through the stained glass above them, when she has trouble sleeping. She shares what she is comfortable with sharing. The occasional story about Fareeha, a story about her homeland and how she misses it often. Sometimes she finds herself on the cusp of telling him something deeply personal. In those moments, she hesitates, but his smile dispels all doubt. She finds herself sharing more and more each day that passes. 

Unlike Reinhardt, Ana chooses the path of cowardice. She doesn’t know what to make of his gestures, the words he says, the stark meaning behind them. She doesn’t know what to do other than run--run before she gets hurt. 

Ana signals for extraction. She expects her escort to arrive within a week’s time. Instead, a week passes, and no one comes. She doesn’t know what to do. Her information is vital for the war--her information could save lives.

Reinhardt notices the distress and the toll it takes on her during dinner on the seventh day since the signal she gave. 

“I can provide you with more information about where encampments are. I have seen the maps of the eastern front. I could tell one of your commanders where they are.”

“What are you talking about? What do you mean?”

“Your mission. It was to collect knowledge about the terrain, about soldiers on this front, ja? I can help.” 

Ana stops eating her rabbit leg and purses her brows. “Why would you want to help?”

He smiles. “Because I promised you I would serve you. If I can help, in any way, then I will do so.” 

“That would mean becoming a traitor--defecting. You love your country. Germany could very well lose this war with the information I provide.” 

“I… I know. I know it is a possibility. You must understand me, Fräulein, I love my country, but she has changed. She is not the country I grew up with. We are a proud people, and I believe we engaged in this war because we believed we could win it, quickly. I used to think I was doing my duty by volunteering and serving, but I have seen this war drive men and women mad. I have seen anger I cannot comprehend. I have seen my fellow countrymen attack and hurt one another. I cannot fight for her anymore. I have vowed myself to another.” 

Ana drops the bone into the fire and sighs. She stares into the flames and watches him do the same. They put out the fire with collected rainwater and stomp out the remaining embers. She walks back up the stairs to the church and her fingers linger upon the wood of the door. Engraved into the wood is the picture of a rose. 

Reinhardt follows her inside at his own pace. He comes to sit down beside her before the altar. 

“Please forgive me, Fräulein Amari. I have been far too forward,” he says softly. “Know that I meant what I said. If you will allow me to accompany you, I will tell your commanders of the German and Austrian-Hungarian encampments. I would see to it that your mission is a success, and that you and your countrymen win this war.” He places his hand against his chest and bows his head. “If I have disrespected you in any way, please forgive me. I… I did not realize it before, but I understand now. You are sworn to another. I won’t lie, I envy them, deeply, for I believe it would be a great honor to have earned your hand. They are the luckiest person on the--”

Ana turns and grabs Reinhardt by the collar of his white shirt, fisting it in her hand. She pulls him forward and presses her lips against his, drowning out his doubts, silencing him. She closes her eye and pulls him down by the nape of his neck. She swallows down his gasp of surprise, and her fingers thread into his thick blonde hair. 

This time it’s his turn to hesitate. He sits there limply, confused, shocked, with a wide blue eye. He presses a hand to her shoulder and Ana leans away with pursed brows. 

“Ana, I… believe me, I would like nothing more than to kiss you, to have you, but I…” 

“There is no one else, Reinhardt. I am not bound to another. Fareeha and I only have each other.” 

Reinhardt raises a hand to cup her cheek. He stares down into her gold eye, and he smiles again. He presses his forehead against hers, and this time he meets her half-way. He wraps his arm around her, pulls her into his lap until she straddles his legs, and this time he makes sure Ana feels the pressure behind his kiss. He makes sure she knows the pent up emotion he has felt for her since looking up into the bell tower and seeing her there, staring back, even through a sniper’s scope. 

They part from their kiss to take a breath, to let their thoughts catch up with their racing hearts, and his large palms hold her by the hips. He swallows thickly as he watches her remove her blue headscarf, toss it aside, and then she begins the tantalizingly slow process of undoing her long braid. Her deft fingers pull apart the pleats, one by one, and Reinhardt’s eye remains fixated upon her. His fingers touch the small of her back tentatively, as if waiting for her permission. He’s as patient as a saint, but his blue eye speaks volumes, unspoken longing. 

Once her hair is free, it cascades down her back, over the worn gray shirt she wears and atop her shoulders. Reinhardt raises his hand to brush his fingers through the loose strands, admiring their softness, and he presses his face into her hair, breathing her in. His lips fall to her ear, kissing lightly, and Ana cradles the back of his head with her splayed palm. Then his kisses trail lower, to the sensitive area of her neck, to the collar of her shirt. His hands seem everywhere at once with their wide surface area, his breath hot against her neck, the murmur of German she cannot comprehend whispered between kisses. 

Ana breaks their kiss and leans away. She presses a steadying hand against his broad, muscular chest, runs a hand through her hair, smoothing it out, and smirks. She then pulls her shirt over her head. She reaches behind for the clasp on her back, and her brassiere joins the beginning pile of clothing. 

“Meine Göttin,” Reinhardt breathes, his eye widening. His jaw drops. He reaches out and--

x X x

“Alright, alright. We get it, you two fucked--ow!” Gabriel turns to look at Jack, who nudged him in the ribs.

“I imagine you and Jack know plenty about fuckin’ in the field,” Jesse says with a smirk.

Hanzo chokes on his drink. Reinhardt’s face turns bright red. Jack buries his head into his hands. Gabriel glares at Jesse. Jesse grins and tips his hat towards Gabriel, then Reinhardt. Angela’s palm remains fixated upon her face in embarrassment. Genji can’t stop grinning. 

“...What I’m trying to say is she could skip some of the details. We’re all adults, we can fill in the blanks. We get it.”

“I would like to hear it!” Genji pouts. “Why can’t we hear it? It’s clearly an intricate part of this tale!”

“Because that’s private!” Hanzo yells. “That is none of our business.” 

Ana laughs sheepishly. She places her hand on Reinhardt’s forearm and then leans in to kiss his cheek. “You are still as handsome as you were that night, Reinhardt.” 

His jolly laughter fills the saloon, and it warms her heart. He turns his head and brushes his nose against hers. “And you are still as lovely as ever, my Ana.” 

Genji’s lopsided grins grows wider. He leans his cheek into his palm with a dreamy look in his eye. “So. What happened next?” 

“We had a very long evening together. I enjoyed it, deeply, and since then, I have never felt more loved by anyone other than Reinhardt.” 

“You humble me, Ana.”

x X x

The next morning, the bright sun shining through the stained glass stirs Ana from her rest. Her eye flutters open, adjusting to the morning light, and she stretches. Reinhardt’s uniform coat shifts over her naked body. She’s the most limber and relaxed she has felt since the beginning of the war. She rolls onto her side and sees Reinhardt awake, staring back at her.

“Guten morgen,” he whispers. 

“Ṣabāḥul kẖayr.” 

He cups her chin and kisses her deeply, parting her lips. Her muffled moan sets his blood on fire. He moves over her, interlacing his hands in hers, and he guides her onto her back. The jacket slides off of them, bearing them to the early morning light. His mouth trails down her body, leaving love bites in its wake across her beautiful amber skin. To Reinhardt, she’s glowing, absolutely radiant. He kisses down her abdomen, along the length of her scars. His big calloused palms spread her legs, and his beard scratches against the sensitive inner-most area of her thighs. He breathes her in, deeply, and his strong tongue juts forward to--

x X x 

“Okay! We get it! You fucked in the morning, too!” Gabriel groans. “I did _not_ do this to you all when I told you how Jack and I met.” 

“Pretty sure ya did,” Jesse winks, “cause I remember you sayin’ how Jack was a helluva green virgin.” 

Jack coughs and almost chokes on his drink this time, staring at Gabe in horror. “You told him that!?” 

“What?! No!” 

“Yeah. Gabe didn’t. Course, now we all know.” 

Jack shakes his head. Not even Gabriel can resist chuckling with Jesse McCree. 

“Guess you’re more clever than you let on, cabron.”

Jesse shoots a finger gun at Gabe, blows imaginary smoke from his finger-barrel, and then with a wink, holsters it. 

“Please skip to the next _actual_ part of the story.” 

“Why can’t we have a little risque detour? She’s explainin’ the plot, too. It’s important to the story.” 

“I have already explained this. It’s inappropriate and private.” 

“See, brother, even Jesse knows when something is vital to the story.” 

“Damn straight. Everybody fucks.” 

“And what do you know about that?” Gabriel smirks and leans back in his chair. “Is it getting pretty serious between you and your right hand? Will we be hearing wedding bells, soon?”

Jesse winks. “ _Chingate._ ”

Gabriel’s chair falls forward back onto it’s feet. He deadpans. 

Jack jabs him in the ribs. “Play nice.”

Gabriel rolls his eyes and he and Jack share a look, as if to say, The _ingrate started it first._

“So let's get back on track to what matters. You two were fuckin’.”

Ana and Reinhardt laugh with them, completely unconcerned that they have shared the beginnings of the development of the intimate side of their relationship with their closest friends. 

“ _Please_ , what happened next?” Hanzo asks and then clarifies, “ _After_ the next morning.” 

“Well Reinhardt and I needed to decide the best course of action moving forward. That day I scouted outside of the church and discovered the body of the man who was to escort me past the southern front. We had to formulate a new plan to escape safely to the base where my Commanding Officer was stationed with the rest of my team. Eventually Reinhardt and I left the church that had sheltered us from many storms. We decided the closest route towards safety was heading to Switzerland. We traveled in the mountains for a month and a half.”

“It was very difficult, but we survived, together.” 

“We had very little supplies. I was running low on emergency rations and we had to hunt for every meal, which slowed us down. We couldn’t go into Austrian towns; not with our backgrounds. While we were climbing in the mountains, matters became worse when I fell and broke my ankle.” 

“What did you do?” Genji asks, completely mesmerized by the dramatic twist. 

“Well, I could not walk on it. Reinhardt carried me. Despite his old wounds and the heavy hammer he wielded, he took care of me and carried me on his back. Then winter began to settle in, and with the snow, travel became even more difficult. We managed, somehow, with the clothes on our backs and whatever we could scavenge. Luckily we ran into a convoy of Red Cross medics heading toward the southern front. We met Doctors Ferdinand and Helga Ziegler.” 

Genji turns to look to Angela beside him. “Relatives?” 

“My parents,” she mumbles. “They met Reinhardt and Ana and helped patch them up. Unfortunately they did not make it out of the war.” 

“I… I am truly sorry to hear that, Angela.” 

“They were very brave and very generous, Angela, never forget that,” Reinhardt says. “They saved our lives, and for that I will always be grateful. Helga set Ana’s ankle where I could not, and they both looked at my eye and helped take care of the gash further, with an extensive set of medical tools. They provided us with food, blankets, water. We were very lucky; it was like a miracle.” 

“As Reinhardt said, we owed them a life debt, too.” 

Ana and Angela share a brief glance. No one else sees it but them, but Angela’s eyes turn glassy. She swallows thickly and interlocks her arm through Genji’s, leaning on him for support. When Genji tilts his head towards her with a raised brow, the tears have been pushed back and the small smile on her face has returned. Ana wishes Angela would let someone in like she let in Reinhardt. Carrying pain became easier with someone close at your side. If not the young man who seemed to have fallen so quickly for her, then any of them--herself, Reinhardt, Jesse, Jack, Gabriel, Amelie, Lena, even Torbjörn. If Angela needed empathy, real empathy, they all were there for her. _We are all friends, aren’t we?_

Ana skips over the painful loss they endured. Great kindness had been shown to her and Reinhardt by the Zieglers, and in many ways, Reinhardt and Ana felt responsible for the death of Angela’s parents. They had been able to save one another but they had not been able to save innocent lives from the violence of war. 

“Eventually we arrived in Zurich, Switzerland, after many weeks spent traveling. I sent telegrams to my Commanding Officer, relaying the news, and he came out to the hospital we had checked ourselves into in order to receive the field information as soon as possible. Reinhardt kept his word and shared everything he knew about Central Powers fortifications and activity--but he did not share that he was once a German soldier. Even on neutral land I did not wish to risk the possibility of Reinhardt becoming a prisoner of war. My CO believed our story, especially when the information began to corroborate the information of other scouts. Despite Reinhardt’s show of faith, my CO denied Reinhardt’s request to join me on the front.”

“I became a civilian. I stayed in Zurich for two years. I met Angela there, and she was willing to help my eye.” Reinhardt gestures to his scarred face. “She provided me with this glass bauble.” 

“You would have looked so rugged with an eyepatch.” 

Reinhardt chuckles. “I believe the look suits you better.” 

Ana shrugs with a coy wink. “Perhaps.” 

“What happened once you both were better? After your CO had the info?” Jack asks. “Did you go back to London?” 

“Unfortunately, I could not yet fulfill my request for shore leave. I had to return to the southern major field command and report my findings to our General who wished to hear the facts from the soldier who had gathered the intelligence in person. My reconnaissance was used alongside other soldiers’ observations to formulate further action into the Austrian-Hungarian Empire.” 

Genji frowns. “So you just left Reinhardt in Switzerland?” 

“Yes and no. I had no choice, I had to report for duty. I did leave Reinhardt, but that was after agreeing to marry him once the war was over…”

x X x

_London, December 1918_

Ana’s convinced that all it ever does is rain or snow in Europe. The snow flurries remind her of sandstorms, the piles of snow clumped on top of grassy parks and on the roads remind her of the sand dunes of the desert. The city of London bustles with life despite the bone-chilling cold. To the Christian world, the week of Christmas helps everyone forget the war that just ended. Soldiers like herself who survived can finally return home and see their family again. She hasn’t seen Fareeha in four years. What would the girl think of her? Would they be able to start over so easily? Could they just pick up the pieces and move on as if time and space hadn’t kept them apart? 

The fears born of years of service in the military and serving in the trenches pale in comparison to the fears settled in her heart about motherhood. As her own mother used to tell her, _Ana, you will be the one who carries on our family’s legacy. It’s important you remember this when you raise your own daughter. Fareeha will be shaped by who you are. Remember that._

Would Fareeha even recognize her after all these years? Would she be afraid of her mother, who now can only look upon her with one eye, not two? Would Fareeha resent her? Turn from her? 

Ana arrives at the boarding school she left Fareeha at over four years ago. She climbs the steps to the prestigious building and walks inside. The lobby is quiet, with low lighting from candles and a chandelier above. A warm hearth stifles the chill she brings in with the opening of the main door. 

The female receptionist greets her with a pleasant smile. “Hello. Welcome to South London’s Boarding School for Gifted and Talented Girls. Mrs. Amari, I presume?” 

“Yes.” She swallows the lump in her throat. “I sent a telegram a few weeks ago stating that I would like to see my daughter.” 

“Oh yes, Fareeha knows you will be coming today. Most other girls have returned home for the holidays, but many of Fareeha’s friends are the daughters of soldiers as well. Unfortunately not everyone has come back from the war. Your daughter is waiting for you in the library, just down the hall then make a left.” 

Ana bows her head, thanks the woman, and walks toward the library. Her shoes tap loudly against the stone floor, no doubt giving away her arrival. She stops before a mirror in the hall and does her best to fix her appearance. She pulled her black hair into a braid that she wrapped over her shoulder. Her bangs partially cover the eyepatch she has worn for four years over her right eye. It has never made her feel self-conscious until now. Her frown lines look more pronounced. She has a hard time mustering a smile, not with the worries she carries. 

Ana takes a deep breath and walks into the library. Fareeha sits on a couch with her head in a book, turned away from the entrance, facing the library’s fireplace. Ana walks up to where her daughter sits and clears her throat politely. 

“Fareeha?” 

The girl turns and looks over her shoulder. She stands from the couch and abandons the book. They face one another and Ana cannot help but feel like she’s under a microscope. 

Fareeha looks so much older, so much taller than Ana remembers. Her cropped hair frames her face with two braids hanging on either side. Her soft, warm eyes have hardened and grown cold for a ten year old girl. She wears a dark blue dress that has a yellow sash at the waist. 

“Mother?” 

Ana tries her best to smile. “Yes, habibti.” 

“What happened to your eye?” 

“It’s a very long story--and not one you should worry yourself with.” 

Fareeha balls her hands into fists and widens her stance. “I’m not a child! I know what happened! I know what war is!” 

“Fareeha…” Ana’s smile fades. She steps forward hesitantly and touches her shoulder. The young girl flinches and tries to move away. Ana doesn’t let her. She pulls her daughter into her arms and holds her tightly. She lays her head against Fareeha’s, squeezes her tightly, and feels tears well in her eye. “Fareeha, I am so sorry.” 

Fareeha does not embrace her mother back. “I thought you were dead, like the other girls’ parents were.”

“I’m not. I’m here. And I am not going anywhere,” Ana whispers. “Please forgive me.” 

Fareeha sighs. She wraps her smaller arms around her mother’s neck and says nothing. To Ana, it’s a start. Their wounds will take many years to heal. There is so much Ana has missed out on, but they have their future together.

“I told you little bird I would always be in your heart. I love you, Fareeha.” 

Ana wipes the tears from Fareeha’s eyes. She kisses her daughter’s forehead and smooths down her short hair. 

“Was it scary?” 

“Yes. I was afraid, and I missed you every day. I wanted to come home to you.” Ana brushes the hair out of Fareeha’s face. “There is someone I want you to meet, habibti. A very special person who helped me make it back home.” 

Two days later, on Christmas Eve, Fareeha and Ana arrive at a cafe in central London. Ana doesn’t know what to expect. She doesn’t know if Reinhardt will come after all. They haven’t seen one another in two years, but she did receive some letters from him. If he comes, will his feelings for her have diminished? Would he even remember her? 

Ana thought she had arrived early. Instead, she sees him sitting at a table that’s too small for his size a half an hour before she asked Reinhardt to come. He faces away from her. Across from him, a blonde haired woman with skin as pale as snow sits across from him. She wears a blue blouse and a long beige skirt. Her heart sinks in her chest. Had Reinhardt met someone else? 

Before Ana’s fight or flight instincts kick in, the blonde haired woman gestures towards her and Reinhardt stands up immediately, awkwardly bumping the table. He blushes and catches the edge of the table before it and the drinks on top wobble too much. He faces her with a nervous smile and an eye that widens once he looks her over. He looks well despite the large scar across the left side of his face. He combed his hair back and wears a black jacket, a gray shirt, and dark slacks. Ana feels overdressed in her black overcoat and formal navy blue dress. She bought new clothes to meet him. She squeezes her daughter’s hand tighter.

Reinhardt steps forward and bows low once he picks his jaw up off of the floor. He scratches the back of his neck, coughs politely, and then says with his thick German accent, “Mrs. Amari, it is good to see you again.” He kneels down in the middle of the cafe and meets Fareeha at eye level. “Hello, you must be young Fareeha. Your mother has told me so much about you. My name is Reinhardt Wilhelm.” 

Fareeha tilts her head up to her mother. “This is the man who saved your life?” 

“Yes. He did. We both saved each other.” 

Her daughter looks back to the German man and bows her head. “Thank you for looking after my mother Mister Wilhelm.” 

“You are most welcome.” He stands and gestures for them to take a seat at their table.

The blonde woman slides off of her chair and extends her hand to Ana. 

“Hello, Angela Ziegler.” 

Ana releases the breath she didn’t know she was holding. Relief washes over her. She takes the offered hand. 

“Ana Amari.” 

“I am Ferdinand and Helga’s daughter.”

Of course. It makes sense. Before the Zieglers passed, they asked her and Reinhardt to deliver a letter--one that explained to their daughter in general terms what had happened. Reinhardt must have found the girl in Zurich after Ana had left to return to the front line. 

“You look just like them.” 

“Angela is a medical student. I found her studying medicine in Zurich. She is as brilliant and as talented as her parents!” Reinhardt explains. “It is thanks to her that I have this eye.” 

Ana nods. The glass eye suits him. She can’t imagine him with an eyepatch. 

They all sit down again, and Ana and Fareeha order tea to drink. Awkward silence falls between the four of them. 

“Winter in London is so chilly,” Ana says softly--she hates that she has to resort to small talk, but her nerves are on fire. 

“Ah, ja, it is. It has been snowing for weeks.” Reinhardt digs into his satchel and reveals a small package wrapped with colorful paper. He offers it to Fareeha. “Merry Christmas.” 

Fareeha lights up like a star. She takes the gift eagerly with a smile and tears into it. Ana has to slow her down, and once the paper is gone, Fareeha uncovers a stuffed animal, a lion with a bow ribbon around its neck. She holds it in her arms and grins. 

“What do you say, habibti?” 

Fareeha blinks and tears her focus away from the adorable stuffed animal. She looks to Reinhardt. “Thank you Mister Wilhelm. I love it.” 

“I saw it in one of the shops here and I thought it was very cute. I hoped you might like it.” 

Fareeha blushes and holds it the rest of the evening in her lap. 

Their tea arrives and Ana takes a long sip. When she tries to be secretive and sneak a glance towards Reinhardt, she catches the man staring back at her without shame. He looks somber, but relaxed. They exchange stories about what happened in the span of two years since last seeing one another, and it helps them both open up once more. But more intimate questions remain buried under the surface. 

When everyone finishes their drinks, they leave the cafe and go to the park nearby. Despite the snow and the chill, it’s a beautifully clear night. Many couples and families are out celebrating the holiday. 

Angela and Reinhardt share a look--an unspoken conversation. Angela offers to look after Fareeha for a short time to give the other two privacy. Ana accepts, but her daughter and Miss Ziegler do not stray far. 

Ana and Reinhardt sit down together at a wooden bench and watch couples ice-skate on the park’s frozen lake. They sit together amicably in silence until Ana breaks it. 

“I am very happy you came.” 

Ana turns her head and meets Reinhardt’s gaze.

“I… I made a promise two years ago. I hoped to see you again, Ana. I know what we shared was brief, but the promise we made to one another, it helped keep me going.” 

“I wanted to see you again, too, Reinhardt.” Ana takes his bigger hand into hers. “I missed you.” 

“I met Angela shortly after you left, and she was able to finish tending to my eye. But too often all I could think about was the possibility I might never see you again because of the damned war.” 

“I worried you would move on,” Ana admits. 

“Never!” Reinhardt raises their joined hands to his lips. He kisses the pads of her fingers. “I swore myself to you and you alone. Our time at the church, in the mountains, it made me happy, despite the war all around us.” 

“It made me feel the same.” 

“Did you receive my letters?” He asks, hopeful. 

“Yes, I did. I cherished them. They helped me make it through some terrible battles.” 

“I love you dearly, Ana Amari,” he confesses while pressing her palm into his cheek. 

“I love you too, Reinhardt.” 

The words, once said, make her feel weightless. She had said those words once two years ago, believing it may be her only chance. Now, two years later, with the war over, she can say the words with no burdens upon her shoulders. 

“I made a vow, meine Göttin.” Reinhardt digs into the pocket of his coat and reveals two rings. “If you and Fareeha will have me, then I ask for your hand in marriage. I am but one man, but I promise to never leave your side. I will love you and look after you and Fareeha until the end of my days. I want to make you both happy.”

“Yes, Reinhardt. I will marry you.”

x X x

All eyes fall to the rings on Reinhardt and Ana’s fingers. Ana raises her hand and looks upon the shiny silver band.

“I made these bands while in Zurich. I was lucky to meet my good friend who helped me craft them for the woman I loved.”

“I have never taken it off since then.” 

“How romantic,” Genji sighs.

“I had lost so much time to war. I wanted to start over and raise my daughter. I wanted to do something more than take lives. Our lives are so short, and we had already seen so much death.” Ana covers Reinhardt’s hand with her own. “So, we decided to leave Europe in the new year. We chose America because we wanted to live somewhere new, somewhere we were not known as enemy combatants. Angela came with us.” 

“Why’d you end up settlin’ here in Twenty Nine Palms?” Jesse asks. 

“Ah, that is very simple.” Ana smiles wryly. “We headed West because I dislike the cold.” 

“I wanted to be as far away from Europe as possibly,” Angela confesses.

“Understandable.” Genji wraps his arm around Angela’s back and comforts her. “I would not have wanted to stay either, if I had been you.” 

“Reinhardt and I have never been city people. We wanted to live somewhere quiet, some place not as busy and as loud as a city can be. I am familiar with the desert.” 

“It has taken some getting used to, ja, this heat, but I am with my beloved, so I shall endure!” Reinhardt grins. “I had read stories about America, and one of my favorite novels took place in the Mojave. The author described this desert so beautifully, as being a place of mystery and mystique. I admit it sounded rather romantic, but I have been happy living here. Truthfully, I can live anywhere so long as Ana and little Pharah are with me. Home is and will always be wherever they are.”

x X x

After a long evening spent sharing their story, Ana and Reinhardt call it a night. They leave hand in hand and walk up the main road back to the small house Reinhardt built five years ago when they arrived in Twenty Nine Palms.

“We are almost finished with Fareeha’s birthday present. I made good progress last night. She will be racing up and down this street before you and I know it.” 

Ana leans into Reinhardt and smiles. For the past two months he and Torbjorn have worked night and day tirelessly in their shop to build Fareeha a bicycle in secret. Jesse provided schematics he picked up in the city and whatever raw materials or parts they needed to create the gift. 

“She will love it. Jesse tells me all the girls in the valley seem to have one.”

“I just need to make a basket for the front where she can put her school books.”

“Good, perhaps she will actually remember to take them to class.” 

Reinhardt chuckles. “Ah, we can only hope.” 

They arrive at their home and find a note attached to their front door. Ana pulls it off and reads it aloud, “‘Dear Ana, Reinhardt: I figured you might want the evening to yourselves, so Fareeha and I are at the inn for a little sleepover. I know how busy Reinhardt’s been with you-know-what, so I wanted to help where I could! I’ll make sure she finishes her book report. Love, Lena.’ How very thoughtful of her.” 

Reinhardt and Ana turn at the same time to look at one another. They need no words to explain how they feel after the evening they have shared. 

Reinhardt bends down and wraps his arms around Ana, lifting her off of the ground. He gently kisses her on the porch of their home and then sets her down. He sweeps her off of her feet, laughing together, and he opens the door to carry her over their threshold. 

Their house has always felt cosy, welcoming, warm, but tonight Ana doesn’t want to curl up on the couch with Reinhardt, and she suspects he doesn’t want that either. Her husband takes two steps at a time as he climbs the stairs and heads to their room. He sets her down and then pushes her back against the door. His broad body covers hers, and he holds her chin in his palm and looks down into her eye. 

“I enjoyed telling our story, Ana,” Reinhardt purrs in his deep voice, his lips hovering above hers, “but thinking of those days in the church, together…” 

“I know, Reinhardt.” 

“I suppose Herr McCree is correct. Everyone does fuck.” 

Ana rolls her eye, but her sly smile speaks volumes. She reaches down between them and cups him through his trousers. 

Immediately Reinhardt grabs her by the wrist and pins her wandering hand above her. He tsks at her and smirks. He knows her so well, perhaps too well. He knows that while she loves how soft and how gentle of a lover he can be, she also yearns for his firmer touch. His lips fall to her neck, leaving bruising open-mouthed kisses. 

“Ah, tonight it is my turn to worship you, Göttin.”

Ana whimpers and flushes; no one has ever been able to make her feel more vulnerable and more at peace with herself. His teeth graze against her collarbone, and he releases her wrists in order to grab her by the bottom. He grinds himself into her, and then wraps her legs around his wide waist. 

Reinhardt fumbles for the knob and then opens the door to their room. For a man of his size, he walks with grace despite being distracted by her supple breasts covered by a flimsy blouse. He lays her down upon their bed pushed up against the wall and their only pause comes in the form of quickly undressing each other.

When Reinhardt moves in for a kiss, Ana touches his shoulder and wags her finger at him. “Patience.” 

Ana makes sure to test him. She winks and begins to undo the braid from her hair. Her gaze wanders up and down Reinhardt’s naked body. She licks her lips. Yes, there were many details she skipped over during her retelling of their time in the church. His sculpted form. Every inch of him muscular, built from years of hard, manual labor, his chest broad, with tufts of blonde hair that trails down to his abdomen and lower, to his thick cock. His body has been beaten and damaged over the years, but it has only made him more rugged, more weathered. She has always loved the mileage on this man.

Reinhardt blushes under the weight of her gaze--a momentary lapse in his suave demeanor. Ana finishes unbraiding her hair, and like the evening in the church, her hair billows down her back, over her shoulders, with her bangs swept over her right eye. Reinhardt swallows thickly. His goddess stands from the bedside and walks over to him, her hips swaying with every step, and she places her hand over his heart. It pounds faster as their eyes lock. 

“I missed you so dearly in those years we were apart, Ana.” 

“I’m sorry, Reinhardt.” She caresses the scarred left side of his face. She traces the lines where stitches once lay, since healed after several years. “I never forgot, and every day I prayed that God would end the war once and for all.” 

Reinhardt steals a kiss. He crushes her smaller frame against his chest and embraces her tightly. He parts her lips, swallows her moan, and plunders her mouth. His hands splay against her bare back. His body meets her every curve, every high and low, and he guides her back down onto the bed. 

Ana’s head rests against her pillow and their white sheets, and she watches as he climbs onto the bed to join her. It groans beneath his weight, sinking slightly, and he moves over her. His mouth hovers above hers, and they stare at one another while panting. 

Reinhardt smiles wistfully down at Ana. He kisses her like a parched man, desperate to quench his thirst. He breathes her in, smelling her flowery perfume, and his hand explores her trembling body. He squeezes her breast, and then moves lower. His fingers rake gently against her side, eliciting a soft gasp, and then lower, once more. He tears his mouth from hers to watch her closely. The moment his fingers brush through her curls and slip into her folds, Ana’s eye rolls into the back of her head and closes. 

“Ah, now I see I was correct. You were fidgeting in your seat.”

Ana swats at him, but before she can reply with a witty retort, his thumb draws circles around her pearl, and her thoughts melt away in pleasure. She whimpers, his pace steady, his touch enough to tease and torture, but not enough to drive her pleasure farther. Her back and hips arch, and Reinhardt wraps his arm around her waist, holding her body to him. He peppers kisses along her jaw, down her neck, his beard scratching her along the way. He slips his large index finger inside of her, stroking her in time to the movements of his thumb, and she groans. 

Nothing about Reinhardt is small, to say the least. His fingers, his cock, his heart. Ana’s breath catches when another finger joins the other. She forces her eye open to watch Reinhardt’s fingers thrust in and out of her, spreading her and preparing her for something much bigger. Then, his lips enclose around her breast leaving red marks. His tongue flicks against her, and then he moves down her body. He kisses her navel innocently, but his eye burns with passion, his intentions far from innocent.

Like the morning in the church, Reinhardt spreads her bent legs wide and moves his face between them. He smothers himself against her hot, wet sex, replacing his fingers with his tongue. 

“Reinhardt,” Ana shudders. Her hands grab fistfuls of their sheets, and when her knees begin to buckle underneath the steadily increasing pressure building in her abdomen, he holds her still. 

His burly beard rubs against the sensitive flesh of her bronzed thighs, and Ana has told him in the past to never shave it off--not only for how he looks with it, but for how it feels in the bedroom. His tongue laps between her legs, sucking, kissing, knowing just what amount of pressure is required to make his beautiful wife sing. His tongue laps at her folds, slips inside, and the coils inside of her tighten. 

One free hand gropes for her breasts, grabbing hold of her, pinching a dark areola between his fingers, and the other hand hooks one of her legs over his shoulders. Her heel digs into his back, her toes point to the ceiling, and with his name spilling from her lips in a moan, she digs her fingers into his blonde hair, pulling him away from her trembling thighs. Ana drags him back up her body, tugging at his roots, and he kneels between her spread legs. 

Ana wraps her arms around his neck, and she brings him down for a smothering kiss. She tastes herself upon his lips, upon his tongue. His body weighs heavy above hers, but his erection presses against her stomach, hot and throbbing. He ruts against her, desperate for friction. 

Their kiss breaks, and Ana brushes the matted hair from his eyes. “Husband,” she whispers, her voice as smooth and as sweet as honey, “don’t keep me waiting.” 

“What happened to ‘patience’, meine Frau?” 

Ana groans. She laces her fingers into Reinhardt’s blonde hair and crashes his mouth down onto hers. Their teeth gnash together, Ana’s bottom lip gets caught in between. He tugs on it, teasing a whine out of her, and Reinhardt smirks. 

“Reinhardt…” Ana sighs. “Please.” 

He digs his fingers into her hip and with his focus on her, Reinhardt stops teasing her and gives his wife what she has long since desired since reminiscing about their time together over seven years ago. He holds her steady and guides himself inside of her. Her breath hitches, sucked between her teeth, and she closes her eye to savor how it feels to be joined this way.

Reinhardt’s thrusts come gentle but deep, hitting the sweet spot, making Ana’s toes curl. Ana’s nails dig into Reinhardt’s back, leaving little crescent moon indentations. She bears her neck to him, and his teeth and tongue leave marks of his own upon her body--she does dress modestly, after all. No one will know they’re there except for the two of them. They’ve always liked their little secrets. 

The evening takes Ana back to the first step time they slept together. For having been inexperienced, Reinhardt had been a tender, attentive lover. He continues to remain as one, but the German’s confidence and enthusiasm knows no bounds. 

The bed shakes beneath them, but tonight they have their home to themselves. Ana can’t thank Lena enough--she’ll have to make her something special to eat, something she can share with her Amelie.

Reinhardt straightens his back and watches her breasts sway with the momentum of his body moving inside her. He takes a fistful of each and draws his thumbs around each nipple. “Du hast schöne Brüste, meine Frau.” His hands slide down her stomach, and he grabs one of her legs and hooks it over his shoulder. “Und Beine.” 

Ana shudders. “Reinhardt, ich liebe dich.” 

He bends forward and lifts her lower half off of the bed, allowing his thrusts to move deeper. “Genau so,” he whispers in her ear, “...Du willst mehr, nicht wahr, Liebling? Bitte mich darum.”

“Bitte!” 

Ana digs her hands into his hair, tugging at his roots. He knows her too well, her husband--no one but Ana knows how wicked he can be. To everyone else he may seem harmless, a friendly giant. They have no idea how rough and how commanding he can be with Ana. 

“Bitte,” she moans. She doesn’t know how much more of this she can take. 

Reinhardt chuckles deeply and smirks. He gives her what she asked for--release. His groans and grunts rumble against her skin like vibrations, his body so hot, so warm--everywhere at once due to his size. He kisses her sore lips, consuming her like she’s oxygen to his fire, while driving into her as hard as fast as possible, pushing her--and himself--over the edge. 

Ana’s climax rushes over her body in waves. Her legs shake and buckle over his shoulders, squeezing him tightly in a vice. She can’t catch her breath, her vision blurring, and all she can feel are peppered, sloppy kisses on her hot skin, and the scratch of his beard. Her arms fall to their bed, limp, and her legs would have fallen too, if not for his hands holding her there. 

Ana opens her eye, weakly, and sees Reinhardt’s head laying against her chest. She runs her fingers through his matted, sweaty hair. He still remains joined with her, but his strength has been taxed. 

“My big teddy bear.” 

“Meine Göttin.” 

Once Reinhardt catches his breath, he moves off of her and fetches a towel to clean them both up. Afterward, he joins her by her side once more on his side of the bed. 

Ana curls up beside him and trails her fingers through his lighter chest hair. She kisses his scruffy cheek and then lays her head against his large forearm. 

“I hope little Pharah is well.” 

“I’m sure she is. I hope Lena encouraged her to finish her book report already.” 

“What book did she have to read?” 

“ _Frankenstein_.”

Reinhardt smiles. “A classic. One of my favorites.” 

“She’d rather read those strange pulp magazines Jesse picks up in the city. She couldn’t stop talking about the latest issue featuring something about a man who lived with apes and could talk to them.” 

“Tarzan!” 

Ana sits up and looks down at him. She raises a brow, and Reinhardt blushes. 

“Oh… Hehe, well, Herr McCree has been ordering and picking up those magazines for me. I lend them to Fareeha when I’m finished, and I believe she has been sharing them with other students at her school or McCree. Though I believe he prefers the stories about Zorro. I also asked McCree to pick up the latest Wells novel--whatever the shop has in store--next time he’s there.” 

“No wonder I’ve been catching her with the light on past bedtime.” 

Reinhardt sheepishly laughs. “Apologies, Ana. I’ll tell little Pharah to do her homework first.” 

“Good.” Ana leans down and kisses Reinhardt’s scarred cheek. “School work is more important.” Ana lays back and looks up at their ceiling. “But it appears I need to start reading these stories of yours, Reinhardt--or perhaps you can read them to me.” 

“I would be happy to!” 

Reinhardt rolls onto his side and cups Ana’s cheek. He stares into her gold eye and smiles softly. 

“While I love the world of fiction, Liebling, I hope you know that the greatest story I have ever told is the one we shared tonight with our friends.” 

Ana smiles back. “I know.” She winks at him. “Charmer.” 

“I mean it, Ana. I am a happier man because you showed mercy and saved my life. I have never forgotten.” 

Ana nods. She covers the hand on her cheek with her own. “And our vows?” 

“I meant every word.” He leans in and kisses her softly. When he pulls a breath away, he recites the words in a murmur, “‘...For that is the true season of love; when we believe that we alone can love, that no one could ever have loved as much before, and that no one will ever love in the same way again.’”


	12. The Crevasses of the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genji reads one of his favorite novels to Angela. Meanwhile, Hanzo manages the saloon by himself for the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left comments, kudos, and followed us on tumblr! Thank you to the McHanzo discord for the support and the kind thoughts! We hope you enjoy this next chapter. 
> 
> This chapter contains violence, blood, and a rape threat.

"'The outlaw turned to the woman who stole his heart, eyes gleaming with affection, and he knelt down on one knee and asked for her hand in marriage. No hesitance, no doubt, only agreement came from her. She pulled Fernando onto his feet and wrapped her arms around his neck. The sun bathed his bronze skin, his eyes alight with the passion of their love, and they kissed. Deeply, with longing--oh, how they wished they could remain this way forever. Forever they would have, together, through storms and whatever the desert threw their way, they would prevail. The end.'" 

Genji sighs. He closes the book and turns to Angela, who sits beside him on her wooden porch swing. Her blonde head rests against his shoulder, and the blanket stifles the evening chill. The sun fell past the horizon hours ago, but Angela insisted he finish the book, desperate to know how it ended. 

"Did you enjoy the story?" 

"Very much." She tilts her head to look up into his eyes. "I haven't read much fiction. Is there always so much drama?" 

"Of course! The bonds of friendship and love must always be tested. Heroes must make sacrifices, evil must be defeated." Genji wraps his arm around Angela. He curls a strand of her soft blonde hair between his fingers. "Were you afraid Isabelle wasn't going to end up with Fernando?" 

Angela blushes and smiles. "Only a little. I thought Isabelle was going to die defending the town." 

"She was very brave. She knew what was at risk, but she wasn't afraid. She stared into the eyes of that gang and told them that she would not back down until every last one of them left Rapid City." 

She sits up straight and places her hand over Genji's. She giggles to herself. "You really love these stories." 

"Of course! There is nothing I enjoy more than a good book." Genji purses his brows and cups his chin, dramatically pretending to be deep in thought. "Well, okay, that's not entirely true. I enjoy a good sword fight too." 

"Ack, you should stick to books. It's safer." 

"Miss Ziegler, I am extremely skilled with a blade. I fight as well as Zorro, the fox." He turns slightly and interlaces his fingers with hers. "I would happily defend your honor--and I could, without breaking a sweat. My father told me I was the best swordsman our family had seen in generations. Many say a gun can outmatch a sword, but they have not seen what I am capable of." 

Angela smiles half-heartedly. "I have no doubt, Genji. I'm just not particularly interested in combat. I see what fighting does to people. I know first hand that innocent lives always end up in the crossfire." 

To Genji, Angela appears lost in her memories. Her blue eyes fall closed and her body stiffens beside him. 

“The thought of you ever having to fight... I don't like thinking about it, even in jest, even hypothetically.”

Genji nods but frowns. He squeezes their joined hands and whispers, "Gomen’nasei. It was not my intention to bring up bad memories or frighten you." 

“I’m not afraid." 

“Is it because of your parents?” Genji raises his hand to cup Angela's cheek. "Do you want to talk about it?" 

"Not tonight," she murmurs. She curls a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Another night, I promise. You deserve an explanation. But not tonight." 

"Of course." Genji pulls Angela into his arms. This is the second time she has deflected questions about her parents. He understands loss and grief first hand. “Just know that I’m here for you.” He pulls her into his lap and runs his fingers slowly through her hair. He rests his head against hers, and he lets his thoughts still. 

Tonight, the clear evening allows for many stars to glimmer in the inky black sky. The bright full moon hangs overhead and illuminates the desert landscape. The only other light comes from a single lantern hanging above Angela's front door.

The woman in his arms mystifies Genji. She's intelligent, clever, sharp-witted, with poise and angelic grace. A fine dancer. Far too humble and honest for her own good. Determined to see the people in town are well taken care of, healthy, and in good spirits. A heroine in her own right. 

Always a romantic at heart, Genji fell for her quickly. He would defend her against all odds, he'd sacrifice anything to see her safe, and he'd do anything to make her smile.

Over the past three weeks Genji worked at the forge with Reinhardt and Torbjörn, but he slipped away frequently while the two older men distracted themselves in talk or took long breaks themselves. Completely smitten and drawn to her like a moth to a flame, Genji came to her and visited her at the clinic after promising on his first night in town to check in on her, lest any of the Los Muertos gang members return to try to harass her. That next day he came to visit after leaving his brother Hanzo at McCree’s saloon. He spent the second day in town talking with her, learning everything she chose to share about herself with him. Like a proper gentleman he had been raised to be, he asked if he could see her again at the saloon for another evening of food and dancing. She agreed.

Ever since then over the course of the hot months of July and August, Genji visited Angela daily. During the first week he realized she still hadn’t fixed her creaking front door nor had she removed the bloodied wooden flooring in her waiting room. He asked her about it, and he disliked her flippant reply. 

_I don’t have time to fix things around the clinic unless it’s severe. If I tried keeping up with the minor problems I’d no longer be a doctor._

_I can fix them. I insist._

Genji didn’t leave room for Angela to argue or protest. After another whirlwind evening spent twirling Angela in his arms and making her laugh and smile, he returned to the clinic over the next several days, despite the horrendous storm that had pulled into town from the south. He came to her clinic soaked through to the bone every morning carrying a toolbox borrowed from Torbjörn, and he worked through the entire day repairing problems she had somehow ignored for so long. He passed up his own lunches and worked in hot, humid conditions until her front door no longer creaked and hung at an angle, until her floor boards were cleaned of all Los Muertos blood, and until every leak in her roof had been mended. He only stopped, at her insistence, to drink a tall glass of lemonade each morning and then in the afternoon. 

_Where did you learn how to fix all of these things?_

_Books, mostly._ Genji couldn’t tell her that he had watched servants all of his life maintain the standard of living the Shimada Clan was used to. _I have a good memory._

Thankfully Reinhardt and Torbjörn didn’t mind in the slightest. In fact, Genji learned of their gratitude on the sixth day spent working around Angela’s clinic. 

_Ah, we tried fixing that squeaking door months ago! Reinhardt had bellowed. She refused over and over and each time she chased us away with a scalpel, I believe. It was a scalpel, ja?_

_Mm, yes, it was._

Genji couldn’t place whether it was simply his charm that had persuaded her to let him help, or perhaps she wanted an excuse to keep him around, too. He worked while she continued her job serving the townspeople. He gave her privacy with her patients, but every night, they left to either join their friends at the _High Noon Saloon_ or to take long walks around town, where Angela pointed out all of the different buildings, their purpose, and shared stories about the history and the people who lived here. He could listen to her talk for hours about anything and he’d enjoy it. 

After working for two months around Angela’s home, Genji returned to the clinic to visit her like he originally planned--to court her and to get to know her more. Despite his tendency back in Hanamura to be a restless playboy, Genji quickly realized he wanted to take things slower with Angela. Sure, he flirts, teases, and winks, but he lets her choose their pace. 

The choice seems fitting--outside of her clinic, Angela behaves in a subdued manner unless Genji is with her. It seems she considers herself a motherly figure despite her young age, and she takes it upon herself to look after each of the townspeople. Often she asks if they are taking their medicine or looking after themselves, and she tries her best to curb the amount of alcohol everyone else enjoys. She comments frequently on Jesse’s cigar smoking habit, and she fretted over Gabriel Reyes who should have been resting, not working, after the violent encounter with the Los Muertos Gang. 

The sound of giggling stirs Genji from his thoughts. Down the road near the saloon, Lena and Amelie walk hand in hand back to the inn. It’s the first time Genji has seen the French woman smile. Beside him, Angela stifles a yawn and then pats his forearm. Her fingers linger on his sleeve, and he can’t help but flex his bicep for her to feel the muscles beneath. 

“I think I’m going to get cleaned up for the evening,” Angela murmurs. She smiles softly at Genji then stands from the swing. She runs a hand over her pulled back blonde hair and then helps Genji onto his feet. There’s more force behind her touch, and she pulls Genji forward, into her. 

Genji steadies himself with his hands on her hips, and it’s the first time he’s touched her there outside of dancing. His heart thuds in his chest with longing. 

“Will… Will you come again tomorrow?” She whispers. She looks away bashfully and bites her lip. “I’d like to tell you my story, if you have time. I’ll make tea and lunch.” 

Genji wraps an arm around her waist and lifts her chin with his other free hand. He stares down into her pretty blue eyes with a content smile on his face. 

“Of course I’ll come tomorrow.” He glances down at her pouting red lips. His eyes fall half-lidded, and he digs his fingers into the fabric of her cream colored blouse. He tilts his head, leans forward, hovers his lips against hers, and purrs, “And for as many days as you shall have me.” 

“Yes,” she sighs. 

Genji goes the extra distance, pressing his mouth against hers in a kiss. One he has desperately wanted to give since seeing her in the waiting room of her clinic. 

Angela hesitates at first, and Genji wonders if no one has ever kissed her before. It’s both unacceptable and pleasing. How could anyone resist kissing her? He’s honored if he’s her first. 

When she returns the pressure, Genji grins. He pulls back to look into her blue eyes--they’re as wide as the sea and her blush spreads across her pale porcelain skin. He kisses her again, harder than before, and he swallows the lewd little moan she makes. He tilts her hips against his, but he keeps his hand at a chaste level upon her back, even if he badly wants to touch and explore her beautiful body. 

Angela drapes her arms around his neck. She’s so warm, so soft, so pleasantly supple, too, Genji notes. She toys with the black hair at the nape of his neck, and she shudders when he pulls away. She bites her lip, breathes in deeply, and her hands drop to his shoulders. 

“That was the first time anyone’s kissed me, I’m afraid,” she utters. 

“I hope I haven’t offended.” 

“Not at all. On the contrary, I… I greatly enjoyed it. You are a wonderful kisser.” 

Genji smirks. He has had plenty of practice. He cups her cheek with his palm and traces the curve of her parted lips. “How anyone could go without kissing you astounds me.” 

Angela laughs sheepishly. She shakes her head with a smile and traces the edge of his black vest. “I was too busy studying and working to date while in university. Even if I had the spare time, I think many people are intimidated by me.” 

“Why? You are a lovely woman!” 

“But I’m also a doctor. Not only do I have extensive training in curing illness, I thoroughly know the body’s weaknesses. I remind others that their health isn’t perfect. I remind them to look after themselves, to slow down, to take care that they don’t overdo their fun time and fall into dangerous habits.” She shrugs. “I’m also very shy.” 

“You do not intimidate me in the slightest! Have you seen my brother? I have him to thank for being intimidated by no one else.” He slides his hand into her hair. “I meant what I said. I think you are an amazing woman. I-I would very much like to continue courting you, Angela,” the confidence in his voice waivers, revealing vulnerability he has never shown with anyone other than his brother. 

Falling for Angela has shown him that he wants to take things slowly, gently. He wants to know her, and he wants to show her something real--himself, not a facade. 

“...if you will have me.” 

Angela’s blue eyes dilate. She blinks at him in shock, as if she can’t believe what she’s hearing. 

When she speaks, Genji waits on every word. She stares into his eyes and nods. 

“Yes, Genji, I would like that.” 

Genji tightens his grip around her waist and his courage immediately returns. His grin splits his face, and he feels like he could do anything--even lasso the moon and bring it down to earth for her as the Americans say. He presses his forehead against hers and breathes her in. She smells like the flowery soap he’s grown so accustomed to over the past few weeks. 

“What time would you like me to stop by?”

“Around lunch time. Noon? I have a few appointments scheduled in the morning, but everything should be finished by then.” 

“I’ll be here, Miss Ziegler.” He kisses her brow and steps back. He takes her hand, bows low, and looks up into her eyes. “Mata yoroshiku onegaishimasu--I look forward to next time.” 

They part, all blushing smiles and flustered waves goodbye, and Angela stands on her porch to watch him head back to the inn down the road. Genji glances over his shoulder and blows a kiss back her way, and the Swiss woman waves again.

Genji looks up at the moon in the sky and sighs. His heart pangs in his chest. He wants to stay, to be with her, to carry her up the stairs to the second floor of her home above her clinic, and he wants to lay her down upon her bed, brush her blonde hair from her heart-shaped face. He wants to look into her eyes and kiss her over and over to make the little sound he heard earlier spill more frequently past her lips. He wants to stoke fire into her eyes; he wanted to watch her burn as brightly as he burns for her. He wants to worship her like the angel she is, he wants to watch her come apart and give herself over to a different kind of rapture. He wants to lay beside her, lean over her, and caress her cheek until she fell asleep. He wants to watch an angel sleep. 

Would she rest peacefully? Would she curl into his arms, seeking his warmth? Genji groans. He wants so badly to take his relationship at a different pace than the ones he has experienced before. He wants to be a gentleman, but he can’t help but pine after Angela Ziegler with wanton need. 

Genji shoves his hands into his pockets. He can imagine Hanzo scolding his lack of patience and telling him to stop behaving like a reckless teenager. He licks his lips. Both he and Hanzo both know that he was much worse growing up than he is now. 

His attention flickers to a silhouette near the entrance to Jesse’s saloon and then the figure moves into the moonlight.

Hanzo. 

Sometimes he hates coincidence. 

“Ah, brother, I see you’re leaving the saloon rather late, tonight.” 

Hanzo glances up the road to see Genji walking toward him. He stands still and folds his arms across his chest. Even in the near darkness, Genji can see his brother toying with something at his shoulder, something shimmery.

“And I see you’re leaving Miss Ziegler’s clinic rather late.” 

“Come now brother, you know I’ve been spending time with her.”

“Knowing you, you’re doing more than ‘spending time with her.’”

Genji presses a hand against his chest and feigns embarrassment. “Oh Hanzo, am I truly so predictable? You’ve caught me red handed.” 

Hanzo’s small teasing smirk drops. “Don’t tell me you’ve actually--”

“No, no. I’m joking. Relax. Remember to breathe.” Genji chuckles and stops before his brother once he’s just out of arm’s reach. “Miss Ziegler is a fine woman, one deserving of utmost respect and dignity. All I have done is kissed her. I admire her deeply, and I wish to take things at her pace.”

Hanzo hums to himself. He purses his brows and studies Genji in silence. When the tension in his shoulders eases, Hanzo nods. “I see.” 

To Genji, Hanzo sounds solemn, moreso than usual. He reaches up to toy with the tail of a yellow silk ribbon tied in his longer hair. He looks pensive, and the deep frown on his face troubles Genji. 

“You look rather glum for someone wearing a fine piece of silk. A gift, no less. I can only assume _he_ gave it to you.” 

Hanzo raises his head and narrows his gaze. His scowl says anger but his flushed cheeks reveal that Genji’s educated guess has hit its mark. 

“Genji, I--”

“I think it looks good on you. That old ribbon you used to wear may have had sentimental value, but it was so worn and so dirty, Hanzo. I know you have a hard time letting go of things, but I think you wear this gift well. I hope you properly thanked him.” 

Hanzo’s blush deepens and he scoffs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Genji. How do you know I didn’t buy this from Mrs. Amari?”

Genji takes his brother by the arm and rolls his eyes. He pulls Hanzo along back to the inn. “Because, again, you’re sentimental. You would have never gotten rid of that ribbon until it became lost or destroyed.” He gestures with a tilt of his head to Hanzo. “I think this color contrasts better with how dark your hair is, and it matches the design of your arm’s tattoo. I like the cowboy, but I didn’t expect him to be so astute. He chose well.” 

“It’s just a piece of ribbon, Genji,” Hanzo growls. “My previous one tore while… working today, and McCree happened to have a spare.” 

“If you say so, brother. I didn’t know Jesse liked ribbons in his hair. Perhaps you both have more in common than you first thought!”

Hanzo stops walking. He touches his brother’s shoulder and forces Genji to face him. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He glares arrows into Genji, who can’t help but smirk. 

“Jess--McCree and I--he is professional. I’m working for him in order to allow us to live here in town. One of us needs to be making money. I know you have been running away from the forge to help the doctor. You’re doing more chores for her than around Hanamura, Genji. But it is extremely disrespectful to the two men who have offered to employ you, a stranger, and here you are going around town--”

“Reinhardt and Torbjörn gave me permission to help Miss Ziegler. You can ask them for yourselves tomorrow.” 

“The point is I am working with McCree because you and Ziegler gave him the idea.” 

“And you agreed to it, brother. If you truly were unhappy working at the _High Noon Saloon_ you would have quit. I may have not done many chores around our home, but I was just as observant as you, Hanzo. No one could ever force you to do anything you did not want to do. If you truly disliked working for Jesse you would have quit weeks ago.” 

Hanzo lets out a frustrated groan. He runs a hand over his face and walks away from Genji, who follows after chuckling to himself. 

“Not to mention, it’s so obvious to spot when you’re deflecting. You were never particularly accomplished at verbal sparring with me, Hanzo.” 

Genji always had tricks up his sleeves. Witty remarks. A clever counter to whatever argument Hanzo laid out before him. It’s simply the nature of their relationship. 

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Hanzo. In fact I am glad Jesse has taken an interest in courting you as well.” 

Hanzo sighs. “Please stop, Genji.” 

“Oh fine, if I must. You could always handle a good skirmish when two swords were involved, you could always reign in your subordinates with ease, but you have the thinnest skin when it comes to me, Hanzo. Someday you’ll admit it.”

They arrive in front of the inn and Genji opens the door for his brother. “Head up to our room. I’m going to ask Lena if she has a cold compress for your arm.” 

Hanzo blinks and looks down at the blossoming black bruises and abrasions just above his wrist. Dried blood cakes the wound and threatens to stain his shirt. He unrolls the sleeve so it properly covers the dark marks on his skin. 

“I’m not going to ask how you earned those if you promise not to lecture me about Angela. Just tell me it wasn’t--” 

“No, of course not,” Hanzo sighs in irritation. “It’s been handled.”

“I expected no less, brother. You haven’t lost a fight since we were children. But do not think I’ve forgotten about your loss to cousin Hinata.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes. “She only won because you distracted me with your antics.”

Genji’s lopsided smile widens. “Of course, if you say so.”

x X x

_Two hours earlier…_

After a busy evening serving the guests of the High Noon Saloon, most of the town called it early due to the second coming storm seen on the horizon. Only Lena and Amelie remain, speaking quietly to themselves in their typical corner booth. Everyone could smell rain in the air again despite the lack of clouds in the night sky, and everyone expects this summer storm to be as wild and as intense as the previous. Jesse left on an errand just before everyone turned in, citing a dire need to pick up more peppers from Gabriel Reyes’s farm just outside of town for tomorrow’s special dish. 

_Can’t make a good bit of southern chili without the right ingredients, Hanzo. And people in town will know it._

Hanzo didn’t mind. The peace and quiet once everyone left came as a rare treat. It’s a chance to clean up after the day; he doesn’t want to admit it around McCree to spare the man’s ego, but he knows he cleans the dishes far better than his cowboy counterpart. 

“So, that pendejo leaves just about anyone in charge of this shitty cantina?”

Hanzo looks up from the glasses he’s cleaning to turn his attention to the doorway of the saloon as four members of the Los Muertos Gang walk towards the bar--men he doesn’t recognize from the clinic ordeal. Since arriving in town, this gang has been nothing but trouble for both his brother and this town. He hears the distaste in the way Gabriel Reyes, Sheriff Morrison, and even McCree speak of them. An honorless gang-- _No, not even a gang. Just thugs,_ Hanzo thinks to himself. He doesn’t have much right to think poorly of these men, unfortunately, without seeing himself through the same lens. The Shimada Clan harassed the local town of Hanamura in its own way, Genji explained long ago. He doesn’t ignore the shame, but instead tries to channel his feelings towards seeking redemption for his own name.

“So where is he?” One of the Los Muertos men speaks up with a skull tattoo over the right side of his face, “He jerkin it while El Guapo does all the work around here?”

The three others laugh behind him.

“Though I see some senoritas I’d rather get to know.” The Los Muertos thug moves towards Lena as she calmly scoots a little further to the edge of her booth she's sitting at with Amelie.

“We’re not interested. You tossers better get home before you get stuck out in this storm.” She smirks, “We have a no pets policy in our inn so don't expect an open door when you get rained on.”

“The hell does that mean?”

Amelie sighs, places her napkin down over her plate, and scowls, “Allow me to translate into a language you are more familiar with: vete a la mierda.”

“Right-o, luv!” Lena laughs, “Always helpful, Amelie!” She playfully punches the French woman’s shoulder and then loudly whispers, “Uhm, but, what does that mean?”

The Los Muertos gang member’s face turns red. “Oh you think you’re real funny, huh, you little bitch? How funny do you think it’ll be when I put my fist through that pretty face of yours? Or better yet when I throw you over this table and show you what happens when you speak to me like that!”

Hanzo jumps and slides over the bar’s countertop, landing on his feet. In a few quick strides he stands between Lena, Amelie, and the quartet of Los Muertos thugs.

The leader snorts. “Oh? And what are you looking at guapetón?”

“A better looking guy, right Rafael?” Jokes one man who holds a coiled whip in his hands.

“Shut up, Vic!”

Rafael turns back to glare at Hanzo. “You tryin’ to be like the pendejo now? You even have the cojones?”

“Please leave,” Hanzo says calmly without moving from his position. “You are not wanted here.”

“Oh so you _are_ trying to be like the pendejo!” Rafael laughs coldly, “Look at you puta. You know how it turned out for him? You want your blood all over these girls before me and mine drag them through the streets?”

Fighting against overwhelming opposition was something Hanzo had trained for since childhood. A discipline that the men in front of him so obviously lack. His father, Katsuo Shimada instructed both his children to read Sun Tzu’s book _The Art of War,_ and from its pages Hanzo learned great wisdom and came to understand combat in all its forms.

_If your enemy is secure at all points, be prepared for him. If he is in superior strength, evade him. If your opponent is temperamental, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. If he is taking his ease, give him no rest. If his forces are united, separate them. Attack him where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected._

“Yeah didn’t think so pendejo.” Rafael’s hand comes up even to Hanzo’s shoulders with the intent of the obvious attack of pushing him away. The movement is much slower than any of the men Hanzo has sparred with in the past, so much so that he has to hold himself back until the attack is fully in motion before he can securely grab the other man's wrist.

_The art of deception._

“What the--”

Before Rafael can finish his cry of surprise, Hanzo jerks the wrist quickly upward to snap the radius bone with a loud crunch. He follows up with a quick jab to the Rafael’s throat, cutting off his scream. He then finishes Rafael off with a sharp kick to the inside of his knee which immobilizes him on the floor.

_There is no instance of a nation benefitting from prolonged warfare._

_When dealing with overwhelming numbers the only way to claim victory is through quick and decisive attacks,_ Katsuo Shimada had once explained to Hanzo when he had questioned his unfair training environment. _Life will not be fair my son, nor should you expect it to be. Our enemies will do unspeakable things to defeat us, they will use whatever means necessary to gain the upper hand. You must be prepared at all times to surmont unimaginable odds. There can only ever be one victor who will enjoy the sakura once more while the carcass of the defeated will rot away on the forgotten battlefield. Strike at the heart of your enemies with a swift and decisive attack. If not, then you will surely find a knife at your throat._

Hanzo steps towards the closest man before his hands can untangle themselves fully from his belt loops. _A foolish stance for someone about to engage in combat,_ Hanzo briefly thinks before exploiting his opponent’s error. His fists recall the same steps of this combative dance, and he strikes his target with lethal precision. He sends three quick blows in succession to the Los Muertos thug’s kidney, stomach, and lower lung. The man grasps for air and slumps forward, clutching at his chest, seeking oxygen he has been robbed of.

Wasting no time, Hanzo twists the limp man's body, shoving it up against the other two and knocking them against the wooden tables behind. Hanzo watches both Vic and the other Los Muertos thug bump against the back of the tables to the wooden floor. As they both scramble to find their footing Hanzo takes a step toward Vic only to catch a glimpse the unnamed Los Muertos gangster fumbling to pull his gun free from his hip holster.

Hanzo jumps over the knocked table, kicks the man firmly in the chest, and forces the man back onto the floor. He brings his knee down on the man’s windpipe letting gravity carry Hanzo’s full weight into his attack. He follows up with a sharp blow to the man’s temple rendering him unconscious.

Out of the corner of his eye Hanzo sees Vic’s whip swinging toward him. He rolls to the side, but not before he feels the tails graze the back of his neck and skull. As he comes up into his crouch he feels the fabric of his ribbon give and his hair falls, curtaining his face.

Vic cracks the whip in the air. “I’m going to fuck you up!”

Hanzo’s passive expression evolves into a cruel snarl as he raises his arm to block the whip’s next strike as it bites into the skin of his left forearm.

Vic’s next retort dies in his throat as his grip and his ego falters underneath Hanzo’s cold glare.

Hanzo pulls the other man toward him with his own weapon and then slams his fist into Vic’s solar plexus. As Vic stumbles forward from the blow, Hanzo brings his knee up to Vic’s face, shattering his nasal cartilage. All fight leaves the thug as he collapses heavily on the ground.

He hears the cocking of a gun’s hammer alongside a curse in Spanish. Without hesitation Hanzo flicks his right wrist to dislodge the hidden blade attached to the inside of his arm’s sleeve. His eyes fall on his first recovering and final target, Rafael, who holds his gun in his uninjured hand.

The blade flies as true as his arrows and impales Rafael’s hand before he can pull the trigger, causing him to drop his gun. He screams and falls to the ground holding his mangled hands against his chest.

Hanzo moves towards his last target at a slower pace before kneeling at his side. Rafael looks up at him and stops screaming as he’s meets Hanzo's scowl.

“Never come here again.” 

Hanzo grips his knife and pulls it out as quickly as the blade entered the skin. He wipes the metal on the other man’s shirt sleeve to rid it of the dirty blood as he surveys the rest of his neutralized enemies who still writhe on the floor moaning in pain.

He lets out a deep breath as he sheathes his blade back into its small holster underneath his sleeve. He rises to his feet and closes his eyes. He raises a hand to rub at his tired eyes and then brushes back his loose strands of hair. 

“Well shit, I step out for one damn minute and I miss all the fun. That ain't fair in the slightest, pardner.” 

With adrenaline still rushing in his veins, Hanzo turns his head quickly to see Jesse McCree standing in the doorway with a toothy grin plastered on his face. 

McCree walks towards Hanzo and whistles, “Four guys without firin’ a shot. Now that's a fight I’d have loved to see fully.”

Hanzo pushes the hair out of his face again and glances about the room in search of his hair ribbon. His frown deepens when his eyes land on the torn fabric laying on the dusty wooden floor of the saloon. 

It doesn't take him long to recall the exact moment the ribbon was torn from his head from Vic’s attack. He had hoped the ribbon had merely slipped out of place during combat, but deep down he knew the truth as soon as his shoulder length hair fell from its binding. 

He kneels down and picks up the ribbon with a heavy sigh. He gently runs his fingers over the fabric and frowns solemnly. It was just a piece of ribbon, but it had been the one his mother used to wear.

He doesn’t raise his head to look at the cowboy. “McCree, I…I apologize, I can explain--” 

“Hanzo here was very brave, Jesse!” Lena shouts in glee. She bolts up from her seat to come to Hanzo’s defense. “He stood up to those Los Muertos chavs and showed them who’s boss! Oh, luv, ya should’ve seen it! He was like,” Lena shadowboxes, mimicking Hanzo’s deft movements, “and then the other guys came up, and Hanzo was like, pow, pow, shazam!” She laughs and clasps her hands before her. “Amelie and I were just so shocked! Thank you, Hanzo.” She walks over to Hanzo, stepping over the groaning, grunting Los Muertos men, and gives him a tight hug. “You’re our hero.”

Hanzo makes a face, but doesn’t protest. His chest tightens with conflicting emotions. He didn’t do anything special, if anything his father would have been disappointed he let himself be injured by such untrained, brutish tactics. American clothing restricts his movements much more than his kyudo-gi ever had. He would remember that next time.

“Those tossers got what they deserved. I hope you don’t feel bad, Hanzo. Tell him he shouldn’t feel bad, Amelie!”

“What you did was very brave,” Amelie says with a small smile. She stands from the table to join Lena and Hanzo. “Merci beaucoup.” 

“It was nothing.”

McCree steps up to Hanzo’s side and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Well now, let me go get this hero checked out here.” He turns to Lena as he ushers Hanzo to the back room, “Lena you mind grabin’ Gabe and Sheriff Morrison? I’ll need a hand cleanin’ up the place tonight.”

“Will do, Jesse! I’ll be back in a jiffy!”

McCree takes Hanzo by the good arm and pulls him along to the stairs to take him up to his room. 

“I assure you McCree I am uninjured.” Hanzo tries his best to diminish his own irritation. He’s not a whimpering child.

McCree kicks open the door and brings Hanzo to his bed pushed up against the far wall near his only window. Hanzo sits down and watches the cowboy hurry to the adjoining washroom. McCree returns with a small metal box with a sloppy red cross painted on its side, a washcloth, and a bowl of water. He comes to kneel before Hanzo on the wooden floor and he carefully pushes up the loose sleeve where a minor laceration from the whip marrs his pale skin. 

“As I said before I apologize for the damage to your saloon and you may deduct from my wage as you see fit for any necessary repairs.”

“Hold up there, pardner. I ain’t worried about a few blood stains and a couple of broken chairs.” McCree takes his hat off and sets it down on the table beside them, “I’m worried about you Mister Samurai. You’re lookin’ mighty glum for the guy who won that fight.”

Hanzo looks down at the torn ribbon in his right hand. Sentimentality has no place in combat and as the elders often told him, it has no place in Hanzo’s life. But even so this ribbon served as one of the few remaining tokens Hanzo had of his late mother. It became even more precious after he and Genji left their ancestral home; it was a testament to the place where she had lived and died.

“That ribbon,” McCree gestures with his chin as he wipes Hanzo’s forearm with a wet cloth, “Somethin’ important to you, ain't it?”

Hanzo shrugs. The adrenaline of the fight has begun to ebb, leaving lethargy in its wake. He crumbles the ribbon in his hand and closes his eyes. 

“It’s nothing.”

“That ain't the look of nothin’, that’s for sure.” McCree rinses the cloth in the bowl, “Was it a gift from a someone special or somethin’ back in Japan?” 

Hanzo remembers her smile, her soft features, the sound of her laugh as she sat with him and Genji in her garden. He remembers her kindness, the taste of the treats she always saved for her boys, and the secret looks of longing between their mother and their father. He remembers the day she gave him this ribbon to help keep his growing hair out of his face while he and Genji trained. He feels so foolish now, letting his heart ache over something as insignificant as a piece of cloth, but it has stayed with him for over ten years. 

Hanzo opens his eyes and looks up at McCree through the loose strands of hair in front of his face.

“It was a gift from my mother.”

“Oh,” McCree sighs. “She has good taste--mom’s usually do. My mom made me most of the serapes I have, now that I think about it. Couple’a knitted socks too.”

“She was very wise, very beautiful, and she cared deeply about Genji and I.”

McCree’s face falls. When the pieces appear to come together, he curses under his breath. He stops running the washcloth over Hanzo’s cut flesh and swallows thickly. He takes Hanzo’s other hand and squeezes it tightly. 

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--”

“She died over a decade ago. She rests peacefully with the spirits of our ancestors. There’s no need to apologize.”

“Still I--I’m sorry Hanzo. Didn’t mean to have no manners.” He squeezes Hanzo’s hand in his and says, “I know something like that is irreplaceable but I’m sure you wearin’ it each and every day made her happy.”

“It did. She hated seeing my hair in my eyes.”

_I like being able to see my son’s eyes, Hanzo. You cannot train if you cannot see your opponent._

Hanzo clears his throat and sits up straight. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “I’m fine, McCree, really, this is unnecessary. I need to clean up downstairs. You do not need to fuss over me like Doctor Ziegler.”

“Wait.” McCree swallows and gets to his feet. “Just hold up now, please.”

Once McCree knows Hanzo isn’t going to leave on him, he moves quickly over to his safe, spins the combination, and pulls out a small package. He takes a deep breath and then slowly walks back over to Hanzo. He sits down beside him on the edge of his bed and hands Hanzo the package. 

“What’s this?”

“It’s not more weddin’ tea, I promise.”

Hanzo snorts. He tears open the paper parcel until Hanzo sees the coiled piece of yellow silk ribbon laying at the bottom. His eyes widen.

“Now sure, it ain't exactly like the one you lost, and it won’t ever replace the old one. It probably won’t ever mean to you what the old one did. But I reckon you’ll need somethin’ to do the job and I think this color will suit you mighty fine. I figured blue or black would be too dark in your hair, and that shirt getup you had the first day you arrived here had a little yellow in it, so I thought it might match.”

“I…” 

It’s not often Hanzo is at a loss for words. Surely McCree didn’t keep spare ribbons around his saloon for no reason--he never bothered to try to pull back his wild head of brown hair. The labeling on the package read that it had come from Japan, much like the sake and the tea. McCree imported these items with purpose. Why would McCree purchase these things for him? Logically the man would have had to place his order the week of their arrival for it to come by now. Why would McCree do all this for him? 

“Well, uh, if you like it, I could help you put it on? My hair ain’t exactly as long as yours but I did have a phase where I would tie it back into a little tail.”

Hanzo blinks, stirred from his thoughts. He lifts the ribbon out of the packaging and holds it in his hands. He traces his finger along its length and purses his brows. The ribbon’s finely woven, vibrantly colored, with a faint pattern stitched into it. Importing goods from any foreign country carries a high cost; Hanzo knows, he balanced the budget for his clan’s business after all and he learned about the high taxes and tariffs. Why would McCree go through so much hassle? Was McCree expecting something in return, from him? He would not let himself be in any man’s debt as leader of Clan Shimada. He would not fall into anyone’s debt in America, either. 

“Why are you importing these goods and giving them to me, cowboy? What is your angle? I am not a man to be trifled with, and if you are expecting something from me, then speak truth.” The adrenaline he felt earlier from the fight bubbles to the surface. “I will _not_ be in your debt.”

“Angle? Now wait just a darn minute.” McCree scowls and leans back, “Ain’t playin’ no angle with you Hanzo. Been shootin the straight and narrow with you since you got here. Ain’t no debts to be paid, and I ain’t tryin’ to double deal here. It's just a gift.”

“You must take me for a fool, cowboy,” Hanzo huffs, “You have no idea who I am, what I am capable of, and I will not be toyed with.”

“God damn you’re one stubborn, dense man,” McCree growls. He runs a hand over his face and shakes his head. He gestures offhandedly. He fumbles the words. “There ain't no law statin’ a man can’t buy gifts for someone he's sweet on.” He shrugs. “There ain’t no wicked plot behind my gesture, Hanzo. So there. There’s my cards out on the table darlin’. Take it or leave it.”

“What are you talking about? Do any of those phrases actually mean something in English, or is this simply how Americans behave when they’re caught with red hands?”

“It’s red-handed,” McCree snorts bitterly. “The phrase is ‘caught red-handed.’” 

“Do not mock me, Jesse McCree.”

“Well that's the second time you’ve used my first name. And I ain’t heard it once said all nice and soft. It’s always McCree or damn cowboy with you.”

“Your name is McCree is it not?”

“Well I got two names for your information. Unlike just ‘Hanzo’.”

“Quit deflecting. Explain yourself.”

“I already said!” McCree throws up his hands in exasperation. He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, and groans. “I’m sweet on you damn it. Hell, you need me to spell it out for you? It means I like ya. I got feelins. I ain’t ashamed about it.” He looks back to Hanzo with pursed brows. “Is Japan really so different than America you all get strung up for buyin’ and givin’ and receivin’ gifts?” He scoffs. “No wonder you left it.”

Hanzo twists his head to look at McCree. “Excuse me?” He asks through gritted teeth.

“You heard me,” McCree says with a frown. He shrinks back slightly under the other man’s gaze.

“You know nothing about why I left Japan.” Hanzo clenches his hands into fists. “You stupid cowboy.” 

He stands from the bed and faces away from McCree. He closes his eyes and feels a lump in his throat as emotions boil to the surface. What did this American know about his home? What did this mere bartender know about the sacrifices he has made for Genji?

“I left Japan, my home, because of my brother. You think I would live here in this forsaken wasteland willingly? You think I would work as a mere waiter, when I once hailed from one of the most powerful families in my home country? You think I would sacrifice the life we had over something so petty, so foolish, so pointless as mere gift giving? I gave everything up for my brother, and I would do it again in a heartbeat. You know nothing about who I am, what I have seen, what I have lived, and you mock my pain. I will not allow it!” 

“Hanzo,” McCree says his name like he’s just been wounded. He moves cautiously to Hanzo and tries to reach out to touch Hanzo’s shoulder, “that ain’t what I meant.” 

Hanzo grabs hold of McCree’s wrist. “Who are you working for?” He growls. “Did Nishimura hire you?”

“Neeshe, who? Ain’t nobody hired me.” McCree scowls, “I work for me, myself, and I.”

“I am not an idiot, cowboy. It perfectly explains why you have been receiving packages from Japan. Payment, no doubt, for this charade.”

“Goddamnit how dense are you gonna be about this? It ain't a damn charade or trick or whatever the hell you want to call it. I ordered those packages for you from the same guy who gets the rest of my supplies. Look at my receipts if you gotta, look at the books. I got nothin’ to hide. Apparently you do, Hanzo. Who is this Nishe...Neeshe--I’m just gonna fuckin’ call him Steve for now. Who is he?”

Before Hanzo can reply, Jesse McCree’s face lights up in understanding, then fades into terror. 

“Wait a minute. You’re… you’re on the run, aren’t you? Is that what this is all about? Steve’s comin’ after you and Genji? What’d you mean earlier, when you said you left for Genji? What the hell happened back in Japan?”

Hanzo frowns. He drops McCree’s wrist like he’s been burned by the sun-kissed skin. His face grows pale. He steps back and runs his palm over his face, his fingers brushing over the recently trimmed facial hair. His thoughts race too fast, his heart thuds loudly in his chest, over the sound of his logic and reason. The adrenaline he felt from the fight returns in full force, making his heart pound in his chest. Fight or flight. 

He chooses flight.

Hanzo moves to leave, turning his back on McCree, but the cowboy doesn’t let him go far. McCree takes his arm gently and pulls him back into his chest. He faces no resistance from Hanzo, who stands limply against Jesse. 

“Hey,” Jesse whispers, “I’ve got you.”

McCree releases his hold on Hanzo and places his right hand over Hanzo’s fist until it loosens. He takes the scrunched ribbon carefully from Hanzo’s grip and runs his fingers through the soft strands of his dark hair and then pulls his hair back into a new high pony-tail. He ties a loose knot and then helps guide the ribbon tails down Hanzo’s back. He squeezes Hanzo’s shoulder and leans close enough for Hanzo to feel his warm breath on his neck.

“Look…Hanzo, I shouldn’t have said what I said about you and Genji leaving Japan. I was bein’ sore. I wasn’t thinkin’. I’m sorry.” He pauses. “I...I can see you’re feelin’ kind of overwhelmed, but please just know I’m on your side. So take some time for yourself ‘til you figure it all out.”

McCree steps back and bows his head to give Hanzo space, and Hanzo appreciates it, even if he doesn’t say it aloud. 

Hanzo turns and raises his head to study McCree one last time before leaving. The man looks torn, hurt, and dazed, like he’s taken a flash-bang to the face. His characteristic swagger and charm has all but dissipated. Regret washes over Hanzo. He knows now that there was nothing suspicious about McCree’s gifts. 

Nishimura is a clever man, a snake waiting in low lying grass, but he would never hire someone like McCree--someone who wore his heart on his sleeve the first day they met on the dusty road near the train station. Nishimura would never be able to control a man like Jesse McCree. 

Suddenly Genji’s words from their first evening in town make sense. 

_...if I approach every new relationship with others with the same hesitance, suspicion, and animosity as you, then surely I will only ever know people for one day alone. You have a right to be cautious, but I encourage you to remember, Hanzo, that not everyone is as callous nor cruel as the members of Clan Shimada._

How could he call Jesse McCree a fool, when clearly it’s himself who has made a grave error. 

“I… I am sorry as well, Jesse. Thank you for the gift.” 

“No worries, Hanzo.” McCree grins but it doesn't reach his eyes. “You’re welcome. My pleasure.” He reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. “But you really ought to get that arm looked at--I didn’t quite finish up yet. Have Lena to take a look once you’re back at the inn if you don't wanna bother Angela and your brother.” 

Hanzo bows his head and leaves Jesse McCree’s room. He heads down the stairs and enters the saloon to see that Sheriff Morrison and Mister Reyes have handled removing the Los Muertos Gang members. Taken to the local jail, hopefully, where they will no longer be able to harass townspeople. The blood on the floor remains, however. Hanzo goes behind the bar, grabs a rag and a bowl of water to clean it up. The others have already covered enough for him. This is the least he can do. 

When he’s finished, Hanzo rings out the bloodied rag and catches his reflection in the small mirror McCree has in his kitchen. His eyes fall immediately to the ribbon in his hair which starkly contrasts his inky black hair. He touches the long tail and pulls it over his shoulder. He likes the color, he likes the texture, the pattern. He could have… he _should_ have responded better to McCree’s gesture. He sighs, and the frown lines on his face only seem to grow longer. 

He owes McCree more than an apology, but an explanation? 

Hanzo shakes his head. He doesn't owe McCree anything… _No,_ he does. But not tonight, not now, tomorrow, any other day but today. His heart hurts. He can’t help but miss home. He can’t help but wish their lives were simple once more, where he didn’t have to suspect everyone at every turn, where he could… 

Hanzo leaves the kitchen and heads out into the main hall of the saloon. He walks past the scene of the fight and heads out into the cool evening air, hoping to clear his thoughts. He steps out onto the porch of the bar and looks up at the night sky. 

Part of him wants to go back into the saloon, climb up the stairs, and let everything he has carried for many months, _years,_ fall off his shoulders. To share his burdens instead of letting them fester and rot in the crevasses of his heart. He wants to trust someone besides his brother again. 

“Ah, brother, I see you’re leaving the saloon rather late, tonight...”


	13. Anatomy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genji stops by Angela's clinic for lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick shout outs to a couple of people in particular. A big thank you to Zath, my coauthor, for the [wonderful](http://ijaat.tumblr.com/post/149089994927/the-sun-appears-on-the-eastern-horizon-and-early#notes) [moodboards](http://ijaat.tumblr.com/post/149233221612/hanzo-curls-a-loose-strand-of-his-hair-behind-his) you've made so far for this story. Also to Lady Noms who made an adorable piece of [fanart](http://ladynoms.tumblr.com/post/149117416228/bamfbugboy-have-some-more-fanart-from-the) for a scene from chapter 4 with Genji and Angela!
> 
> Another big thanks to everyone who has been leaving kudos and commenting! It means the world to us!

Genji stops by the next day for lunch with Angela. He waits for her in her front room while she tends to her last patient for the morning. He tried his best not to come early, but he couldn’t help himself--he came twenty minutes earlier than she said she would be free. Forty minutes have now passed sitting here, but he doesn’t mind. It gives him time to think about what she said last night on her porch. It gives him time to reimagine how it felt holding her in his arms and kissing her for the first time, ever. He’s gone over the evening over and over, and he can’t stop thinking about her.

He hears a murmur on the other side of the wooden door dividing the waiting room from the exam room that also houses her personal office. Then, the click of the doorknob, and out comes Amelie with her arms folded across her chest. She doesn’t look happy; to Genji she has seemed more reserved and more quiet than certainly other citizens of Twenty Nine Palms. Her frown coming out of the exam room is deeper, her stance closed off, her body almost coiled in upon itself. It’s none of his business, but he can’t help but wonder what’s wrong. He hopes she’s not here because she’s ill. 

Angela walks out behind her, and with her hand on Amelie’s shoulder, she says something only they can hear.

The two women then turn to Genji, and Angela smiles. 

“Greetings Miss Ziegler, Miss Lacroix. I hope you don’t mind that I waited here.”

“Not at all, Genji,” Angela says softly. 

Amelie plays with her long pony-tail, and to Genji she looks nervous. “I apologize for keeping Doctor Ziegler over,” she says, her English flourished by her thick French accent.

“No need to apologize at all! I know how important the good doctor’s work is, and I know her patients are in good hands.” 

“I won’t keep you any longer Angela from your lunch. I’ll check in with you later on this week. Thank you for being able to see me on such short notice.” 

“Of course, no problem. Please do not hesitate to stop by.” 

Amelie leaves the clinic, leaving only Genji and Angela. Genji stands from his seat and bows low. He takes Angela’s hand and kisses the back of it. When his back straightens, he wraps his arm around her waist and guides her to her front door, to her porch. 

“I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of taking care of lunch for today.” 

“What?” Angela asks in surprise.

They step onto her porch and her little wooden table has been done up for their lunch date. Genji spread a white tablecloth on top and set the table for two. A small container sits in the middle with a red and white checkerboard cloth over it. He even made sure to include a little glass vase Lena let him borrow. He found fresh wildflowers near the town churchyard, and they match the color of her blonde hair.

“Oh, Genji, I was going to--”

“I know, and you can still make tea for us both.” He steps away from her to pull apart the cloth covering the container, revealing triangle-cut sandwiches. “But I stopped by the saloon and Jesse let me make some lunch for us both. I even picked up some special desserts from Mrs. Amari.” He comes back to Angela and takes her hands into his. “You’ve been working hard enough for today, let me treat you with something special.” 

Angela blushes. She smiles, too bashful, too beautiful, and when she meets his eyes, Genji’s heart skips in his chest. 

“You’re spoiling me.” 

“Nonsense. You do so much for this town, let me return the favor. I want you to relax.” 

“Very well.” Her cheeks turn pink. “Thank you, Genji. I truly do appreciate it.” 

“You’re most welcome,” he kisses her forehead and then pulls out a chair for her. 

She sits down at the table and lays her napkin on her lap. “I’m still going to make tea later for you.” 

“I look forward to it.” Genji chuckles and grins broadly. “For now, I hope you enjoy.” 

They share their meal together and talk only of light, happy things. The weather, patchy cloudy skies, the possibility of more rain in the upcoming week, the secret birthday surprise Genji has seen Reinhardt and Torbjorn working on at the shop. The taste of the sandwiches, and if they’re to Angela’s satisfaction. 

Their conversation appears to lift weights off of Angela. The tension she held in her shoulders when she stood in the doorframe of her examination room has ebbed. The professional tone of voice no longer present, and the austere motherliness she shows to her patients has passed. 

“I know it sounds ridiculous but I do appreciate you checking in on me as you have.”

“If it means easing your worries and helping you take a break you deserve, then I am most happy to help.”

“I haven’t had as good of a meal as this in awhile.” 

“You eat at Jesse’s saloon often, no?” 

“Well, yes, but one can only enjoy grilled meats so much.” 

Genji chuckles. The American cook did enjoy having some form of meat each night on his menu. Jesse cooked every protein imaginable, and he had somehow even begun to create recipes where two types of meat were merged together, somehow, in perfect harmony. Soul food, he called it. 

He leans back in his chair and sighs deeply. “I think him and my brother are having a spat of some sort.” 

“Really?” Angela frowns. “I thought they were getting along well last I saw.” 

“Well, yes, I thought so too. Today at the saloon they weren’t speaking to one another.” Genji shrugs. “As I’ve told you in the past, Jesse has been courting my brother as the weeks have passed and he’s been so obvious about it.” 

“I knew Jesse would be rather keen on Hanzo the moment I saw him looking at him. He looked rather stupefied.” 

Genji smiles half-heartedly. Despite how much he teased Hanzo about it early on, he’s come to appreciate seeing his brother gradually begin to relax. 

“Something changed after the night I found Hanzo outside the saloon nursing an injured arm. Something happened after he took care of the Los Muertos guys. I’ve tried asking, but Hanzo has never been easy to comfort when he decides he’s beyond it. He’d rather foolishly try to manage everything on his own.” 

He’s just like our father, Genji thinks to himself. 

“It’s not good to try to take on too much. I know Hanzo can take care of himself, certainly, he’s a grown man, but I hope he learns to share more of himself, especially with you.” 

“My older brother, he…” He shakes his head. “He can be so oblivious.” 

“Does your brother not feel the same about Jesse?” 

“Hanzo may like to think of himself as complicated, broody, and burdened, but I know him quite well. I know he’s contemplated the idea of being with someone like the cowboy. He thinks the old western romance novels we read as children didn’t have an effect on him, but I know they did. Perhaps he hasn’t even realized how he feels.” 

Angela frowns. She looks out across her porch to the town’s main road. Few people have ventured out into the bad weather. The dirt road has become a muddied mess. 

“Poor Hanzo.” 

They stand from the table, collect the dirty dishes, and head inside to Angela’s small kitchen. Genji cleans the cutlery and plates while Angela begins to brew tea at her stove. 

“I love my brother dearly but flirtation has never been his strong suit. I think my brother is pushing back because he doesn’t know how to proceed. Hanzo was meant to one day marry a rich, powerful woman from another clan, have children, pass on the family name. I suppose when you’ve grown up with those expectations thrust upon you it can be awkward letting it all go.” 

“I hope Hanzo works through whatever he’s feeling. I have known Jesse for several years. Reinhardt, Ana, and I arrived here shortly before he moved into town. I know he can act like a flirt and a charmer, but I know deep down he wouldn’t be doing these things for your brother if he didn’t mean it.” 

“Yes.” Genji finishes toweling off the last wet plate and places it in her cupboard. “I know. I hate to admit it, but I am worried, too. I hope he doesn’t break Jesse’s heart.” 

“I didn’t expect for Jesse to really take to having help around the saloon, he’s such a proud man after all, but I know having company around has helped him.” 

“I like to think it has helped my brother, too.” 

Angela turns to Genji with a tray of two tea cups, two plates, and a pot of hot water with tea leaves steeping. 

“At this point all we can do is hope for the best.” 

Genji takes the tray from Angela before she can protest, and he leads them both back to the porch. They sit down together and Genji retrieves the special dessert he purchased from Mrs. Amari. 

“I love Mrs. Amari’s baking,” Angela says with a fond smile.

“I don’t think I had ever known how delicious bread could taste until I tried hers.” 

“Reinhardt makes the most wonderful Knödel--it’s like a dumpling, but it’s sweet. And then their streusel is just…”

Genji laughs, he unwraps the small napkin wrapped package to reveal exactly that--streusel. “I was told you loved this.” 

Angela’s eyes widen. She beams as bright as a lit flame. She licks her lips and then blushes. 

“Reinhardt and Ana know me too well.” 

They cut up the dessert in two for each of them to share, and Genji waits for Angela to try it before he partakes, as if waiting for her utmost approval. She scoops a piece up with a fork, brings it to her lips, and then it slips past, and she moans from the sweet, savory taste. She raises her napkin to cover her mouth with a sheepish smile. 

“I take it you love it?” 

“Yes. It’s perfect.” 

Genji’s grin widens. He takes a bite and nods. “I’ve never had this before, but I’m afraid I’m going to absolutely go back to their shop for more. They’ll have to rush me back to the city for the cavities I’ll have.” 

Angela giggles, and to Genji, success has never come as beautifully as it comes with her laughter gracing his ears. He can’t help but admire her once more in this moment--so pleased, so relaxed. He wants nothing more than to make her smile. 

She pours their tea, and they sip it slowly while enjoying their streusel. She chose a black tea, something Jesse must have imported for her months ago from England. 

They sit together comfortably in silence for several minutes. They watch people pass by Angela’s clinic to do last minute shopping before the next phase of the storm rolls in. They steal glances at one another, catching each other in the act, smiling together. 

Once Angela finishes her first cup, she sits down her teacup and straightens her posture. 

“I promised you an explanation, and I have pushed it off for long enough.” 

Genji smiles sheepishly. “You really don’t have to, Angela, if you aren’t comfortable. I don’t want to upset you.” 

“I think it’s time I talk to someone about it. Ana and Reinhardt have always encouraged me to do so. They have told me it will...help in some way.” 

She stares down into her empty teacup and toys with a frayed string on her white tablecloth. 

“As Ana and Reinhardt explained, they met my parents during the war on the border between Switzerland and Austria. I was in university at the time in Zurich studying medicine in my fourth year. My parents served with the Red Cross as medics. As you know that organization is neutral, they helped both sides of the war and often traveled around to different war fronts to lend their assistance. My parents loved the ideals behind the organization. I admired them so deeply when they told me they were leaving to help the sick and wounded.”

“They served a higher calling.”

“I think so.” She smiles sadly, “I don’t know much about the specific details pertaining to their death, but I know they were killed by a group of soldiers, defectors I believe, who were raiding caravans and ransacking abandoned homes. Much like the Germans Reinhardt encountered. Medical supplies as you can imagine are highly valuable during war time due to their high demand and scarcity. My parents traveled with other medics and they carried basic opiates for pain, cleaning alcohol, gauze, steel tools. All of these items could be sold in black markets to the highest bidder. I have asked if Ana and Reinhardt witnessed their deaths first hand but they refuse to tell me. I imagine they did, considering Reinhardt delivered their farewell letter to me.” 

Angela looks like she’s about to shatter. Her eyes have filled with tears as they did several nights ago. 

Genji squeezes her hand, reminding her that he isn’t far. 

“I was so distraught after I read the letter Reinhardt gave me. I dropped out of medical school. I never finished. I’m not even a licensed doctor by any stretch of the imagination.” She scoffs. “The people of this town deserve better.” 

“Nonsense,” he interrupts. “You have done so much for this town and I can only speak for myself, but I can see that they need you. You give them the finest care, you go above and beyond. You even treat those who don’t deserve your mercy, Angela, and I think that is by far your most benevolent, admirable quality. Your parents would be honored to see that their daughter has grown into a fine doctor and into a compassionate woman in her own right. It’s…” 

Genji trails off abruptly, catching himself on the words he was about to admit. It’s why I have fallen in love with you. He swallows thickly. The words will come in due time once more, but right now is a time of healing and sharing.

“It’s...it’s why I believe that this town couldn’t have asked for a finer woman looking after them. I don’t think this town would be the same without you.” He looks into her blue eyes and smiles. “More than that, Angela, you care about your patients. You want to see them get better, and you’re not just doing it because it’s your duty. You care and love so effortlessly.” 

Angela sniffles and wipes at her eyes. She raises their joined hands to her cheek and holds his palm there. When she opens her eyes, she sees Genji has moved around the table to kneel at her side. 

“You humble me, Genji.” 

He wraps his arms loosely around her waist and pulls her in for a tight embrace. He lays his head against her breast. “I know it isn’t easy,” he says while she runs her fingers over his hair, “I remember watching my own mother fuss over my father when he was injured. I know she wanted to provide the best care she could, and I know that isn’t always simple. So I want you to know you can always talk to me, Angela.”

“Danke,” she whispers. She lays her head against his and closes her eyes. “Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”

x X x

When they return to the porch with fresh hot water, they find the rain has stopped for now. The main desert road stretching through town has only puddles of water to indicate it ever rained.

Genji sips his tea and steals a glance at Angela while she’s preoccupied with watching a colorful yellow-breasted bird that has come to sit on the wooden railing of her porch. Her lips curl into a small, hidden smile as the bird stares back, and Genji can’t help but sigh, content. 

The silence lends itself to reflecting about what Angela has shared, and as his thoughts wander, Genji realizes that he hasn’t shared much about himself. His brows purse. 

Two months spent together, and only now he’s come to the realization. He raises a hand to rub at his eyes. He wants to blame Hanzo somehow for insisting he keep their past and their legacy padlocked, imprisoned inside of themselves. All this time. He can try to shift the blame Hanzo all he wants, but he only has himself to blame. He’s forgotten his own manners all by himself. 

Screw it. 

“I think it’s only fair I share a little more about myself.” 

Angela twists in her chair to face Genji once more. She blushes and awkwardly shrugs. She opens her mouth to speak, but Genji raises his hand. 

“I want to share. I’m not doing it because I feel I must, out of some obligation. I realize I have been rather guarded about my own family.” 

“Don’t feel like you have to, Genji, really, I--” 

“Please, Angela, you have no need to worry.” He extends his hand across the table and covers her hand with his own. “While there is much about my family I would rather forget, I would like to share what I remember most fondly about my old home.” 

“Okay, Genji. If you insist.” 

“Hanzo and I grew up outside of the major cities. Out in a mountainous region of Japan. I think my most fond memories are of when Hanzo and I were very young, we used to play together in our courtyard. We would wrestle and spar with bokkens, wooden swords, that we had, and our mother would watch us both from her favorite spot underneath one of our many sakura trees...”

Genji trails off as the memories return like a tide. He closes his eyes and sees his mother there, beautiful, stoic, graceful, with a loving smile. He remembers the joy in her laughter, the warmth in her green eyes, the flowers she used to wear in her hair. 

“She gave me a love of reading. She always wanted new books. Our library was well tended to because of her.” He sighs fondly. “She taught me so much. Origami, how to sew, how to dance,” he chuckles sheepishly, “how to brew tea so that it steeped perfectly.” 

“So I have her to thank for this delicious tea?”

“Yes.” Genji grins. “She always worked hard. She ran our household and while our father ran the family business, he always looked to her for guidance. They were inseparable. Even when they disagreed they tried to find compromise. Our father was feared by many and deemed quite stubborn, but he listened to her.” He sighs and raises his gaze to meet Angela’s blue eyes. “Our whole family admired her, and when she passed, everyone felt it.” Genji smiles half-heartedly. 

Angela frowns and squeezes his hand. “What happened to her?” 

“She grew ill when Hanzo and I were teenagers. Consumption, the doctors said. It was a very difficult time.” He pauses. “I can empathize, Angela, believe me. I know how it feels to lose the people closest to you. I know how it can rattle your entire world, how it can change everything. At first it feels like you may never recover. That the holes in your heart may never be filled again. I know how difficult it can be to overcome grief. It’s not easy, and it doesn’t happen quickly. It can take years for the wounds to stop feeling fresh. I know it’s hard, but they can be filled with only more love and the good memories you have of your loved ones.” He gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “So, I’m here for you.” 

Genji doesn’t go into further detail. Her death sent shockwaves through the Shimada Clan. It began the long descent towards the fracturing of his and Hanzo’s relationship, and their father threw himself into matters of the clan. They only ever saw their father occasionally at dinners or for the rare training session. Hanzo saw their father more; Hanzo did have to prepare for his lofty inheritance, after all. Genji fell through the cracks. Even now, the loneliness he experienced still stings. 

“I loved her very much, and I miss her. I think about her often. I wonder what she’d think of Hanzo and I.” 

“I know she would probably be proud.” 

Genji smiles half-heartedly. He’d certainly like to think she would have been proud. 

“I think she’d be happy for you and your brother, coming out West to America, like a grand adventure from one of those novels you love so much.” 

“I have no doubt.” Genji grows quiet and looks into Angela’s eyes. “I wish you could have met her. I know she would have admired your skill with medicine, your kindness, your bravery, your intelligence. I think she would have enjoyed talking about remedies and the latest advancements in science. You could have talked shop, as they say.” 

“I wish I could have met her, too. She sounds like an elegant, lovely woman.” She laughs sheepishly. “Sometimes I wish I had someone to talk anatomy with, too.” 

The conversation shifts from talk of loss and grief to happier moments. Stories Angela shares about the other townspeople of Twenty Nine Palms. The time Jack and Gabe invited everyone to their home to see their cat give birth to a litter of kittens, the time a circus came to town, the time Fareeha punched a clown at one of said circus events, and to simple, everyday events--Jesse returning from the cities in the valley with the latest supplies, often with gifts, to the fascination surrounding the days when Amelie receives the latest Macy’s catalogue featuring the latest new fashion styles and inventions.

When the rain picks up again, they head inside to clean up their tea cups and the pot. Angela insists on handling the dishes this time, and Genji watches her with an easygoing smile. 

While she finishes drying off the last cup, Genji walks up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist. He presses a kiss to her cheek and holds her close. Angela leans into him, arching herself into the warmth of his chest against her back. 

“Teach me the names of the bones and muscles in the body.” 

Angela turns in his arms and faces him. Her perplexed expression amuses him to no end: raised brows and questions forming on her pretty pink lips. 

“I’m quite serious, Angela. I am a quick study, but I need a teacher. You are a doctor, I’m in need of your help.” 

Angela rolls her eyes but her grin lights up her pretty face like a lightbulb. “You really want me to teach you anatomy?” 

“Yes, I do.” Genji takes her wrist and raises it to his lips. He murmurs, “Start with the bones in the arm.” He lays kisses down her forearm, over her wrist and palm, onto each fingertip. His eyes fall half-lidded as his gaze focuses on her. “Then the fingers.” 

Angela returns his gesture. He releases her wrist, and she takes his hand into her own. Her fingers trace lines along his outer forearm. “Ulna,” she whispers. Her fingers mirror the movement on inner side of his arm. “Radius.” 

They press their palms flat against one another so that the fingers match up perfectly. 

“There are twenty-seven bones in each human hand.” 

Genji cracks a wry grin. “I’ll save those for last.” 

Before Angela can laugh at his joke, Genji steps forward, pressing her against the kitchen counter to steal a kiss. He holds her tightly to his chest, and Angela wraps her arms around his neck, kissing back with pressure and fervor. 

When they part, Genji notes how much he loves the color flared up in Angela’s pale cheeks. He brushes his nose against her, slowly, intimately, and he stares into her blue eyes with a smirk. 

Angela’s hands brace herself against his shoulders. She traces the edge of the charcoal gray vest he wears over his shirt, and she licks her lips as her gaze lingers upon him. She goes in for another kiss, initiating for the first time. 

Genji’s heart leaps in his chest, and suddenly, there’s stronger force behind Angela’s insistent kiss. Her hands trail down his chest, around his sides to splay against his back, and this time, Angela pushes forward, surprising him. 

They open their eyes at the same time, breathing heavier, and Angela pushes the black hair from his face. Her hand cups his cheek, and he leans against her in wonder. 

Of all the places they could have ended up when he haphazardly closed his eyes and pointed on the map at the train station in Los Angeles, he’s happy he picked Twenty Nine Palms.

x X x

“Stay with me tonight.”

Genji turns his attention away from the dancing red and orange flames in Angela’s fireplace to look down at her. She rests against him, half-awake, half-asleep. Her head lays on his thigh, with her long blonde hair splayed like a halo against his dark trousers. 

Their eyes meet. Did he hear her correctly?

Angela smiles up at him, lazy, content. Genji’s fingers trail through her soft, golden hair, and he can’t help but swallow thickly. His heart thunders in his chest. Her lips form into a pout and her eyes fall half-lidded, sleepy. Does she even know what effect she has on him? She raises a hand to stroke his cheek, her fingers grazing over his skin like a breeze, hesitant like a kiss. 

“I don’t want you to leave tonight. Stay with me.” 

This time it sounds like a plea, a hushed whimper, her lips parted as if in a soft gasp. Angela sits up, and the way strands of hair frame her heart shaped face leaves Genji transfixed, the woman before him leaving him fantastically hypnotized by her sultry gaze. 

“Please,” she whispers. “I want you to hold me.” 

Without hesitation, Genji stands from the couch in her small living area and hooks his hands under her arms and legs. He follows her directions through the ground floor of her residence and her clinic to the stairs in the back leading up to where her bedroom awaits her after long days taking care of townspeople. 

They pass the threshold of the bedroom, and he sets Angela down onto her feet. She turns on her light for him with the switch, illuminating the room. Like downstairs in her clinic, her bedroom is organized, clean--but he wonders how often she uses it. Genji has caught her plenty of times downstairs sleeping at her desk or on the couch. 

Angela disappears into her small washroom to change into her night clothes. Genji unbuttons his vest then his white shirt underneath. He hangs them over a wooden chair situated before a boudoir, and he quickly checks his appearance in the mirror. He kicks off his boots and his socks and keeps his pants on. 

When Angela returns, she clears her throat, and Genji turns to face her. He feels his heart skip and stop in his chest. He swallows thickly. 

She stands before him wearing a long pastel blue cotton nightgown with white lace around the modest neckline. The sleeves come just past her shoulder, and the length falls past her knees. Her long hair remains pulled back, but Genji watches, transfixed, frozen like a statue, as she reaches up and unties the ribbon holding up her hair. Once free, her blonde hair cascades down her back and to him, she smiles at him, sleepy, relaxed, with her fingers nervously toying with a loose piece of thread on the nightgown. She has never looked more beautiful. 

Genji follows Angela to her bed. She pulls back the multi-colored quilt bedspread and offers him a pillow. He tries to remember to breathe, but he can’t help but feel nervous; he hasn’t shared a bed with someone in years. Certainly never with someone he has actually fallen in love with. 

Genji turns off the light. The room grows dark, but they can still see the figures of one another. They move into the sheets together. They lay on their sides and stare at each other until Genji moves closer. He draws her into his embrace, and he kisses her, deeply, with his hand threading into her long hair. She touches his chest, her fingers leaving fire in the wake of their exploration. She discovers every scar from yore. She draws the design of his emerald green dragon tattoo in wonder. 

Genji guides her backward, and Angela lays on her back. He leans over her and presses her harder into her sheets, parting her lips, meeting her tongue with his own. His hands remain chaste against her body, holding firmly, intimately, without moving past her waist. His splayed palms wrinkle the fabric of her nightgown.

Little moans slip past her lips as they kiss. Genji echoes her enjoyment with a low grunt when her fingers dig into the nape of his neck, holding him to her with possessiveness he has never known. Genji has never felt more wrapped around her finger than in this moment. 

They share multiple kisses as Genji teaches Angela herself a thing or two about the body she may not have known before. How to coax pleasure out of another person. Something a textbook cannot teach. His lips press against the curve of her neck and suck on her ear. He leaves little marks wherever his mouth lingers longest; _love bites_ , he assures her with a grin. He breathes in her hair, consuming her like fire consumes oxygen. 

When the fire between them passes as the evening wanes on, Angela rolls onto her side and Genji comes behind her to hold her. Her body lays back against his, and his hand finds hers over her clothed stomach. He presses his forehead into her shoulder and sighs, content. 

Everything about this experience is more new to Genji than he expected. Before, in the town near Hanamura, Genji looked for attention, a distraction, a passing thrill. The women and men he met never let him hold them. They never held him in turn. He never asked because it was not expected in the situation. It had always been simply physical, never intimate. He never learned their stories, he never cared to, too flippant to wonder.

With Angela, there is newness in this experience. For the first time Genji gets to listen to someone gradually give themselves over to sleep--he knows how badly Angela needs it. She works too hard, but it’s her determination that Genji loves. Her body grows lax, limp, heavy in his arms. He holds her and strokes her hand with his thumb. When sleep takes him, he joins her in slumber to the backdrop of rain pitter-pattering against her rooftop.


	14. An Arrow Through the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a rainy day in Twenty Nine Palms, and as a result, business is slower at the High Noon Saloon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of shout outs before this chapter gets rolling:
> 
> A big thank you to fellow author CaptainCorgi for commissioning a scene for this piece from chapter nine, when Jesse and Hanzo were sharing sakurayu tea. Artist [ Jamiekinosian](http://jamiekinosian.tumblr.com/post/149780087847/bamfbugboy-captainxcorgi-jamiekinosian-a) on tumblr did a fantastic job, and Zath and I are so touched. 
> 
> Another huge thank you to artist tigerbunnybyphysx on tumblr for drawing [Hanzo and Genji teasing each other!](http://tigerbunnybyphysx.tumblr.com/post/149562666443/take-me-easy-brother-tvt-bamfbugboy-you-give-me) It's an absolutely adorable picture. 
> 
> Finally, a warm thank you to CaptainCorgi once again, who has been very kind on discord and cheering Zath and I on as we write this piece. [ I highly recommend checking out their various pieces on Ao3!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainCorgi/pseuds/CaptainCorgi)

_Three days later, at the High Noon Saloon_

“You’ve been scrubbing that same cup for the past twenty minutes, McCree.” 

Jesse’s attention snaps towards Gabriel Reyes, who sits at his bar eating lunch next to his husband, Sheriff Morrison. He focuses on the two men before him and then laughs sheepishly. 

“Huh. Yeah. Guess I have been.” He tries to crack a smile. “But who’s countin’ really?”

Jack raises a brow as he holds his mug of coffee in his hand. “Is something wrong, Jesse?” 

“What?” Jesse’s brows purse. He shrugs nonchalantly. “No, don’t think so. Why?”

Gabriel and Jack share a look, and Jesse hates that he’s this easy to read when it comes to these two. Jesse shifts his weight and places the cleaned glass back onto the counter. 

“You look like someone went out back and shot your dog,” Gabriel says before taking a bite of his sandwich. “You’re moping. You haven’t said a damn thing since Jack and I walked in, and normally you run your mouth like it’s a race to see how fast you can piss one of us off.” 

“I don’t know about that, Reyes. Sometimes all I gotta do is breathe wrong and you’re grumpy.” 

“Nah, don’t give me that. Normally you’re going on and on about this or that, or you’re humming some godawful tune. Maybe it’s a blessing you haven’t broken out into song today, cause Lord knows you don’t have the pipes of an angel.” 

“Who’s to say I’m not saving my lungs for later on tonight when we play?”

“Please,” Gabriel snorts. “Tough guy over here thinks he can deflect all day.”

Jack can’t help but smile wryly. “You know he’s not going to give up Jesse until you convince him that everything’s alright.”

“Sums it about up.” Gabriel takes a long drink from his coffee mug. He shrugs and then folds his arms across the counter. “I got all day, Jesse.” 

Jesse’s nonchalance fades. He scowls. “Jesus Christ, I’m not your kid. I don’t need babying. You’re freakin’ out over me zoning out while drying off dishes. Heaven forbid a man get lost a little in his thoughts. Like, you want to string me up on the rack, next? Cause I feel like I’m servin’ lunch for the god damn Spanish Inquisition here. I’m _fine_. Let it go.” 

“You’re bringing down the mood of your own saloon,” Gabe gestures over his shoulder, “if you hadn’t noticed.” 

Jesse hates admitting it. Today has been slower. At first he figured it was the bad weather keeping people indoors or running late. He thought surely the lunch rush would pick up. People normally come to his bar rain or shine. Lunch time has come and gone, and only Jack and Gabriel have stopped by for a mid-afternoon meal, given their odd hours. 

“I’m sorry to admit it, Jesse, but Gabriel’s right. Word spreads around town, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the bar fight from the other night.” 

Jesse folds his arms across his chest. “What do you mean ‘word spreads around town’?”

Jack sighs. He wipes his mouth on his cloth napkin and then places it on the counter next to his emptied plate. “Lena stopped by earlier today at the jail to ask us to… check in on you and Hanzo.”

“And why would she go and ask you to do that given your busy schedule, Sheriff?” 

“Apparently Hanzo came back that night to the inn a little stiff, a little more than usual, I guess. Genji told her that he thought something might have happened after the fight. Lena said that you took Hanzo up to your room to look after him, but when Lena looked at his arm, she said that it had been cleaned but hadn’t been bandaged.” He meets Jesse’s eyes. “Now, I know I’m not a detective by any stretch of the imagination, but I don’t think it’s hard to put the pieces together. I don’t think you would have let Hanzo go without bandaging his arm. I think something happened between you two, preventing you from finishing what you started.”

Jesse stands there, dumbfounded. He blinks at Jack and then looks away. He reaches up to pull his hat further down over his face. It’s a childish move, but he knows he can’t cover up how sore he feels about the other night. 

“I thought you and Hanzo were getting along well enough. Lena didn’t say Hanzo was angry, but that he did seem a little lost in his thoughts--kinda like you. Not really responsive. Dazed. So I can only assume what you both must have talked about.” 

“It ain’t any of your business. Don’t go stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong, Sheriff. Hanzo’s--” Jesse sighs. Just saying the man’s name makes his heart twist in his chest more than he thought it would. “He’s been workin’ for me and he’s been doin’ alright here. There’s nothin’ more to it. Yeah he got a little scuffed up that night beatin’ up those guys, but he handled it. Mister Samurai kicked ass and I thanked him kindly for it. He went on his merry way back to the inn.” 

“C’mon, do you take Jack and I as idiots? We may be older than you, Jesse, but our eyesight works just fine. We’ve seen how you look at Hanzo. It’s pretty obvious you’ve been pining after him. You’ve practically been following him around like a duckling around this saloon since he first got here. We both know you’ve been flirting with him. I mean c’mon it’s obvious. Everyone in town knows.” 

Jesse frowns. “Didn’t realize I was so obvious,” he mumbles. 

“You might think of yourself as some broody, mysterious cowboy but you haven’t exactly been subtle.” 

“Who cares if I was or wasn’t. Ain't no law against flirtin’ last time I checked.” Jesse turns back to Gabriel and Jack and growls, “And it ain’t like I haven’t caught you two doin’ the same. You both have been plenty flirty and handsey like young kids from time to time, and I ain’t ever questioned it cause you’re married. So extend the same courtesy to me, why don’t ya.”

“We aren’t saying you can’t flirt or fancy Hanzo, Jesse.” Jack tries his best to be diplomatic, but to Jesse it just sounds like condescension. “We’re trying to help figure out what’s happened between you two. Did you confess to Hanzo? Did he turn you down?”

Jesse remains perfectly still, frozen like a statue, with a deep frown on his face for several moments. Then, suddenly, he’s leaning against his back counter, hiding his face beneath the rim of his wide stetson. His heart races a mile a minute in his chest, and he can’t figure out how to hold up his arms. He unfolds and folds them across his chest and toys with his hat and shakes his head over and over, as if dealing with an internal struggle. 

“You two’ve gone and picked a fine time to try to be my mom and dad. Well sorry, but that train left the station a long time ago.” 

“It’s called being concerned, Jesse,” Gabriel says with a stern tone. “You want me to go down to the schoolhouse and ask Amelie for a dictionary? Trying to return the favor, here.” 

“I don’t want none of your favors.” 

“Stop acting like a kid and talk to us!”

Jesse’s hands ball into fists. “Then stop tryin’ to act like my goddamn father! I said it ain’t none of your business and it still ain’t no matter how much you shout and yell.”

Gabriel pushes his barstool back and reaches over the bar to grab the front of Jesse’s shirt and tugs him forward. “If I was your _goddamn father_ I’d have raised you to show more respect to those who actually give a damn about you even when you’re too thickheaded to see what's in front of you. You want to keep calling yourself a man and not a kid, then fucking act like it.”

Before Jesse can shove and shout, the wooden door leading to the kitchen opens. All eyes fall onto Hanzo, who steps out into the main hall of the saloon wearing a white apron. Everyone grows still, frozen in place, and no one dares breathe.

Jesse wants to push and shove Gabriel away so he can pull his stetson’s rim fully down. So he can hide his face and never let anyone else see him again. He hasn’t felt this angry and this embarrassed in years. No doubt Hanzo could hear their shouting out back. No doubt he could catch parts of their conversation. Hanzo’s a smart man; no doubt he’s put the pieces together. 

Hanzo pulls the apron over his head and hangs it on the set of hooks near the door. He doesn’t turn to look at the three men who still haven’t moved. He doesn’t acknowledge the fact that Jesse’s practically prone on top of the counter nor the fact that he’s being held up by Gabriel Reyes in a fierce argument. Instead, all Hanzo says are four simple words: “I’m taking my break.” 

The words sting like a rattlesnake’s poison. The bluster and fight leaves Jesse as he watches Hanzo slip out the back door of the saloon to go outside. 

Gabriel lets go of Jesse, who falls back onto his heels with sagging shoulders. He looks back and forth from Jesse and Hanzo’s back until he exits the saloon. 

“Did he turn you down?” 

Irritation has all but passed through Jesse’s system. The anger of confrontation has dulled like a knife used too many times, no longer cutting deep. Jesse takes off his hat and lays it on top of the counter. He runs a hand over his bearded face and sighs in despondence. It’s not his place to reveal details about Hanzo’s life without having even been brought willingly into Hanzo’s confidence. He doesn’t even know the full story. All he can do is guess, even if it’s likely the truth. Hanzo all but confessed the other night to being on the run from some prick whose name he can’t even pronounce. Given the fight he walked in on, he can only guess Hanzo’s on the run for killin’ someone nasty. He sure looked capable. 

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Just a whole lot of awkward between us. I’ve been waitin’ for him to come around and talk, but I’m getting the feelin’ that a pow-wow ain’t gonna happen anytime soon.” 

“Don’t give up, Jesse,” Jack consoles with a hopeful smile. “Sometimes all you need is time.” 

“Maybe. I don’t know. Feel like I messed up a decent sorta friendship we had.” 

“Then don’t be a coward. Don’t wait around for someone else to give you a sign. If you say it’s awkward, then clear the air. State your position. If he isn’t interested, then move on. Simple as that.” 

“This advice is a little rich comin’ from you Reyes.” 

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t right. Gotta have some ideals to follow.” 

“I think what Gabe is trying to say is you have a right to getting a clear answer from Hanzo. Just be polite and respectful. If he isn’t interested then respect that and move on. But if he’s giving you mixed signals, well I’d be more cautious. Either way it’s important to communicate how you feel. Just be yourself.” 

“Thanks mom.” 

“He’s not your mom,” Gabriel groans, “Jesus.” 

The fact that the joke has flown over Gabriel’s head makes Jesse smile. These two might as well be his dysfunctional parents one way or another. 

“If you don’t mind I’m gonna close up early today, since it’s bad weather and all.” 

“Sure thing,” Jack says. He claps Jesse on the shoulder. “Thanks for the lunch.”

Gabriel’s eyes seem to pierce through Jesse. His stern expression might as well be fatherly, one of concern but discipline. “You heard Jack. Just be yourself. You’re not a half bad guy once you put yourself together. But Jesse,” Gabriel’s voice lowers into a darker tone, “you can’t take on someone else’s shit until you handle your own. Battle your own demons before you try to take on his.”

Jesse resists calling Gabriel his father, even as a joke. He stands and watches Jack and Gabe head back out into the rain with their own stetsons on their heads and rawhide leather jackets keeping them dry. He then collects the dirtied dishes and takes them back to the sink in the kitchen. 

On his way back out into the dining area, he catches himself in the mirror. He runs a hand through his hair to push down the wild loose strands. He should’ve shaved earlier; the five o’clock shadow appears to be encroaching further up his jaw. His eyes look tired, with dark rings underneath them. Hell, he sure couldn’t sleep worrying about Hanzo and the status of their relationship. He knows how people in purgatory feel.

Jesse picks up his stetson from the counter and puts it back on top of his head. He foregoes his serape or a jacket. He’s already sweatin’ buckets because of his own nervousness. He doesn’t need to be any warmer. Rain might do him some good to calm his hot head. 

Jesse heads out the back door of his saloon and follows the winding path towards the outskirts of town where he knows he’ll find Hanzo. Years ago, back when he first settled into town, Jack and Gabe told him about their little shooting range they had made when they moved in a few years earlier. This place always helped calm his nerves, and he had shown it to Hanzo over two months ago. 

_I noticed your sling. You seem like an old fashioned kinda guy. We can practice our aim together. I’ll show ya how a gun beats a bow any day._

Hanzo’s skill no doubt impressed Jesse when they trained together. Jesse had never seen anything like it; no one used the arsenal of an archer these days. Not when you needed a quick trigger finger to avoid being made into carrion dinner on the side of the road. Hanzo gave him a run for his money on speed, accuracy, and precision. Jesse had never felt jealous of someone else’s aim before, but watching Hanzo notch an arrow into that bow of his and let it fly left Jesse in pure awe. He could prepare an arrow as fast as Jesse could load bullets into the chamber.

Jesse finds Hanzo shooting arrows at one of the few trees in the area with his bow in the goddamn rain. He hangs back, observes in silence, and does not make himself known. He hasn’t seen someone with such perfect posture, with such focus, with breathing so even, so shallow, Jesse would assume Hanzo was a statue instead of a person. The weather doesn’t appear to bother Hanzo, who shoots arrow after arrow into the same innermost circle carved into the tree’s bark. 

Hanzo goes to collect his arrows, and before Jesse can move in to join him, Hanzo says, “Why did you follow me out here, cowboy. You have a saloon to run. Tend to it.” 

Jesse tries to brush off the sting of Hanzo’s words. He steps into the makeshift range that is nothing more than a few rocks measuring distance and three trees on the opposite side. His boots squelch in the mud, no longer attempting to be quiet, as he walks forward. 

“You left in a rush. I wanted to make sure you were doin’ okay. You shouldn’t be out here. You’re gonna get sick.” 

Hanzo scoffs. Any chance of this conversation starting off any less heated, any less tense is out the window. 

Jesse hopes and prays that Hanzo didn’t hear any of the conversation he shared with Jack and Gabe. What would Hanzo think, hearing how emotional he became? What would Hanzo think of him, a grown man, being scolded like a child by two men who emulated his own father? What would Hanzo think if he knew the truth behind his own glum mood? 

Jesse has felt every emotion between anger and sorrow since their conversation in the second level of his bar. His worries ran deep. Learning that Hanzo and Genji came to America because they were on the run came as a surprise, but one that made sense the moment he put together the pieces. It explained Hanzo’s demeanor early on. The suspicion. The hesitation. The jittered nerves. Hanzo carried burdens Jesse had only begun to comprehend. He could only guess why they were on the run. Had Hanzo killed someone? After the scene at the saloon, Jesse wouldn’t be shocked. It became clear rather quickly that the muscles Hanzo had shown off in his first day in town came from years spent training for combat. Whatever the reason, Hanzo had sacrificed, and it had been for his brother, Genji.

Hanzo returns to his place at the end of the range and prepares another arrow for his bow. He stands completely undeterred by a gust of wind making the rain come down in torrential sheets. His loose strands of hair fly wildly in the wind. He does not flinch at the rumble of thunder in the distance. He shoots another arrow and it lands dead center. He makes it look so simple. 

“I wish you’d talk to me.” 

No response. 

“I’m not the bad guy here.” 

Jesse says the words and then immediately regrets them. Who’s he kidding? He’s killed plenty of men before. He’s raided friendly caravans. He’s stolen from innocent people. Gabriel’s warning rings like a death knell: _You can’t take on someone else’s shit until you handle your own. Battle your own demons, before you try to take on his._

All Jesse wants to do is move on. Start over. Live happy, live free, and live with the people he cared about. That’s the American dream, ain’t it? He wonders why every step on this path has been nothing but a challenge. One step forward, ten steps back. Didn’t he deserve a little peace and quiet, too? Didn’t he deserve a little happiness? 

“I’m not part of any conspiracy. I’m on your side. I ain’t tryin’ to trick or hurt you.” 

Silence. McCree feels like he’s holding onto a ledge and his fingers are slipping. He knows he can’t hold on much longer before he falls. 

“Fine, if you don’t feel like talkin’ maybe you can just listen for awhile.” Jesse squares his shoulders up to face Hanzo’s back. “I ain’t gonna apologize for my gifts for you. Where I come from it's how I was raised to treat someone you cared about. But I reckon’ I should apologize for assumin’ that I had you figured out and that I kicked the hornet's nest with my loose words.”

When Hanzo doesn't respond he takes another step forward. “And maybe I won’t ever know exactly what you had to do to end up here in this town. Maybe I won’t know how much you gave up to keep your brother safe. But what I do know is this, keepin’ a secret like that, holdin’ onto a burden that heavy, it’ll eat you from the inside out. Cause friend, though we may have walked different roads to get here, our boots made the same tracks in the mud...”

Another arrow pierces through the heavy downpour. Their clothes grow heavy from being soaked with rain. The sky darkens further. A lightning strike shatters their vision momentarily in bright, blinding light as it crashes down onto a nearby foothill. The thunder roars in response. Being out here suddenly feels less and less safe as time passes. He’s hasn’t felt this lonely in years. 

The snap of a taut bowstring echoes loudly in Jesse’s ears causing him to grimace. It feels like the arrow flew into his own heart instead of its intended target. He swallows heavy and tilts his head down, watching the droplets of water running off his stetson onto the muddied ground. He stares into his own murky reflection. 

“Hanzo, please.”

Hanzo refuses to turn and address him. His drenched gray shirt clings to his arm, revealing muscles beneath. He wears his black hair down, and it’s the first time Jesse’s ever seen it like this. It clings to his face, to his back, and to his shoulders. He isn’t even wearing the ribbon, which hurts more than any other gunshot wound or stabbing he’s ever experienced. 

When had he last felt so defeated? When James had died during the war? When he realized that he’d never see his brother again? When he had lost his own way without the support of that friendly smile and firm hand on his shoulder? When he ran away from home and found himself wandering the desert searching for answers, seeking purpose? When his eyes held the same hurt and melancholy as Hanzo’s own do now?

He takes another breath and raises his head again. When he had been without a bearing he had done things he would come to regret for the rest of his life. Feeling those regrets and carrying their weight meant that his life hadn’t ended the day he took the telegram from underneath his Mother’s pillow that informed them of James’s death. He was alive, and being alive meant living and enduring hardship. 

Life moved forward for Jesse as much as he wished it hadn’t. He carried the same pain in his chest from the loss of his brother every agonizing day. He grew reckless and gambled with the life he felt was worthless. He won his first gun fight and continued killin’ because something possessed his devil-quick hands to clear leather like lightning. He joined the infamous Deadlock Gang and became an outlaw. The lines between life and death blurred to Jesse McCree, Deadlock outlaw who climbed up the ranks faster than other recruits. He lost track of the number of notches on his gun; he lost track at twenty-four, and by then, he had ran out of room on the handle.

Jesse woke up from his own selfish stupor during what appeared to be a heist like many before. The Deadlock Gang boarded and robbed a train while it was passing through New Mexico on the El Paso and Southwestern rail. Jesse didn’t know the heist was different than all the others until he followed the Deadlock Gang’s leader into an empty train car with two dead US Army guards. He watched the boss grin wildly as he inspected the cargo. As he shared his plan of what they were going to do with the explosives inside the government crates, Jesse watched as the leader’s eyes widened in mischief, mania, and he looked like a man possessed by something otherworldly. It chilled Jesse to the bone. 

Later that day, on their way back to the hideout, Jesse swore he could hear James’s favorite whistling tune on the wind and he knew then what he had to do. He loved his brother and living the Deadlock life wasn’t how he wanted to honor the memory of him. In the dead of night, he took his own horse and mule with three crates of dynamite and headed west out of New Mexico, leaving that life behind him. Jesse quickly learned that leaving his past behind wasn’t as easy as he originally thought.

Just outside of Prescott, Arizona he took a bullet to the chest from a self-proclaimed bounty hunter. He hadn’t had time to stop to clean the wound, makin’ him ill. He had truly been on death's door when he came upon Gabriel Reyes and Jack Morrison out in the Mojave Desert. Before they had even learned his name, they fished the lead out of him and nursed him back to health. Even after his health returned, he still hadn’t been able to clear the darkness that had tried to consume his very own soul on his own. He became a member of this town, he met Ana and Reinhardt when they moved into town with Angela and their little daughter Fareeha who took a shining to him as he shared his favorite pulp magazines with her and made her laugh. 

Living in Twenty Nine Palms made him feel like part of a family again. A real family. It made him feel needed and wanted in their lives. It made him realize that he wanted to _live_ the life that he had taken for granted so many times. He wanted to feel something other than the hurt of loss; he wanted to laugh and smile again. He came to understand that no matter what form a man or woman’s burden came from, no matter how heavy or how torn they felt their heart had become, with a kind smile, a helping hand, and a reminder that family was more than the blood in your veins, even the most downtrodden could find the strength to stand tall once more. Redemption can come to those who worked for it.

McCree smiles despite himself. _Life isn't easy,_ Ana told him long ago, _but that doesn’t mean we stop living. Our struggles make us stronger, but what makes us stronger still are those who stand beside us as we move forward._

He walks forward and steps in front of Hanzo as he readies another arrow.

“Move,” Hanzo demands while staring past Jesse.

“I ain’t gonna.”

Hanzo growls and pulls his bow back quickly letting the arrow fly. It whips through the air, shooting over Jesse’s shoulder.

Jesse has no idea if the arrow hit its mark. He releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding in suspense. Suddenly he can’t take it anymore. He presses his body into the next arrow that is being notched. He feels the sharp arrowhead dig into his chest, but he doesn’t relent. He doesn’t retreat in the face of stubborn opposition.

For the first time in three days, their eyes meet. Hanzo glares at Jesse, and Jesse stares back with his brows pursed in concern. He studies Hanzo’s expression, searching for any sign of answers. 

Instead, he’s met with indifference, then annoyance. 

Hanzo tries to step away, but Jesse’s moves with him. He blinks at him. Rain slides down the side of his face, gets caught in his freshly trimmed facial hair, and his frown remains as stoic and as unnerved as ever. 

“Move out of my way.” He grinds his teeth. “I will not hesitate to shoot you.”

“If it would ease the pain that you’re carrying, I’d let you fill me full of holes. But I have feelin’ it ain’t me you’re trying to slay out here with your arrows.”

Hanzo remains still. He does not loosen his grip on the bowstring, but he does not tighten it further. He holds his breath, not daring to move or blink, their standoff one to rival something out of one of the novels he used to read as a boy.

“You’re not alone anymore Hanzo.”

Finally, Hanzo relents. He loosens the bowstring, looks away with a growl, and then steps back. He stalks off, dropping the bow and arrow into the mud and leaves them forgotten. He wanders, aimless, running a hand through his wet black hair. 

When lightning strikes again, Hanzo answers with a loud, bellowing yell. Thunder does not drown him out. He tilts his head up to the dark, raging sky, as if he’s about to talk to the storm. Maybe he’s about to take up his case with God.

Jesse watches as Hanzo begins to hyperventilate. His body begins to sway, and before he falls to his knees, he catches him. He wraps his arms around Hanzo and pulls him tightly to his chest, embracing him so hard it’s like he’s trying to exorcise the demons trapped inside. 

Hanzo balls up against his chest, limp, and he fists Jesse’s drenched gingham shirt. He lays his head against Jesse’s chest and chokes on broken, disjointed words. 

Jesse looks down at Hanzo, his wide brimmed stetson sheltering them both from the rain. Without the downpour, he sees a stray tear slide down Hanzo’s cheek, and Jesse catches it with his thumb. He caresses Hanzo’s cheek as his heart pangs in his chest. 

“I’ve got you darlin’,” Jesse murmurs before pushing the damp hair out of Hanzo’s eyes and face. He presses a kiss to his warm forehead and rubs Hanzo’s back. 

Hanzo raises his head and their eyes meet. Jesse sees vulnerability he saw three nights ago in his room. He sees the tired frustration, the exhaustion, the weights under Hanzo’s eyes. He sees the same sorrow, loneliness, and desperation he knew so many years ago. 

Hanzo looks like he’s about to shatter. Instead of breaking further, his friend sighs in defeat. 

“I must look so foolish and weak to you,” he says so bitterly it makes Jesse’s heart ache. 

“Not at all, darlin’.” Jesse’s mouth turns upward in a small smile, “I see a strong, stubborn, but determined man. A man who cares about his brother a great deal. Ain’t nothin’ foolish about protectin’ what’s close to your heart.” He tightens his grip on him. “Talk to me, Hanzo. I don’t know what or who you’re runnin’ from. I don’t care what you’ve done. I’m here for you.” 

The bluster of the storm diminishes. The rain falls lighter, a gentle downpour, thunder no longer attempting to speak over him. 

“I know I haven’t exactly been forthcoming to really speak to that, but I mean it when I say that I know what it’s like. I know what it’s like to have to run and run and run and hope to God I find someplace safe where I can put my boots up at long last. I know what it’s like to carry heavy burdens. Regrets. I know what it’s like to have to look over my shoulder, but maybe if you give me a chance, maybe if you give this town a chance, we could help you. I mean really help you. You’d never have to be afraid of your shadow ever again. If you give me a chance, if you give me the honor of earnin’ your trust, I promise I won’t let you down.” 

Hanzo shakes his head. His expression blank, his eyes haunted, his body limp in Jesse’s arms. “In my family, trust resulted in death. Either you faced it head on as those you put faith in turned on you, or worse, trust resulted in those closest to you to be slain while you slept.” Hanzo sighs. He raises a hand to touch the bridge of his nose. “Forgive me, Jesse. I now know you mean well. It is not as easy to shed old habits like a snake sheds its skin.”

“Life ain’t easy but that don’t mean we stop livin’,” he repeats. “Old habits die hard, but it ain’t impossible to get over given time. And the way I figure it, out in this here desert, you’ll have all the time you’ll need. And I’d be more than happy to wait as long as it takes to help you ease your burden.”

Hanzo hesitates, and Jesse sees internal struggle in his dark eyes. Then, Hanzo speaks, whispering his confession at long last. 

“My full name is Hanzo Shimada. For a time I led my clan after our father was killed mysteriously one night. I was meant to carry our legacy for many decades to come. I did my best to run the family business and see the fruits of my labor keep our home healthy. I tried to lead with dignity, honor, grace. I tried to make my ancestors proud. Instead, all I did was alienate my brother and fracture our relationship.” 

To Jesse, Hanzo looks dazed, lost in memories. He doesn’t dare breathe, he doesn’t dare think, lest Hanzo cease his story. 

“Our clan’s elders saw Genji grow distant. His behavior became unruly in their eyes, and… in mine as well.” 

Hanzo no longer meets Jesse’s gaze. He hangs his head in shame. 

“As clan leader it was my job to manage all affairs, to keep control, to reign in chaos. The elders ordered me to execute Genji through a duel.” 

Hanzo closes his eyes tight, turning away from McCree to hide his shame, but another tear slips past his defenses.

“I could not... I would not, Jesse! I love my brother, I love him enough to sacrifice everything for him, to let our house fall into disarray, to leave our ancestral home, to abandon the shrine where our mother and father’s spirits reside, and to never turn back.” 

_Jesus Christ,_ McCree thinks to himself. 

Suddenly everything comes into clear focus. The mystery surrounding the brothers from Japan disappears. He feels stupid for not realizing something was deeply wrong between them, but Hanzo and Genji acted calm and coolly. Looking back over the past two and a half months, it all makes sense to Jesse. He balls his hand into a fist. The distance, the aloof composure, the stiffness in Hanzo’s shoulders. Jesse took it as condescension, as mere discontent with California, the culture shock. He chalked it up to just being part of Hanzo’s mannerisms and personality. No doubt Hanzo wished to remain home, in the place he grew up in. The home he loved and lost because of the sacrifices he chose to make in order to save Genji. 

Jesse doesn’t have his brother anymore. James fought and died on foreign soil in a war he still doesn’t understand despite how much Jack and Ana have tried to explain the history and politics to him. Losing his brother threw Jesse into disarray, like he was steadily falling apart and free-falling into an abyss that grew darker and deeper as he made more mistakes. Jesse lost his brother and he ran away from the only family he had left: his mother and father back in Santa Fe. He had lost his brother and Jesse turned to a life of crime and high stakes. He played with his life as if it were the ante in a card game. No gamble too high, no job too dangerous, no risk too intimidating. He wanted so desperately to fill the gap in his heart where his brother James should have been that he jumped at the first opportunity that arose. He carries his past like a cross, carrying demons for regrets who haven’t yet been exercised from his spirit. He’s got one angel looking down on him, and God knows he’s more than disappointed James. 

Hanzo however… When the stakes grew higher, even as leader of their clan, he didn’t fold. He kept himself together, he pulled himself up by his bootstraps and did what was right and good. He said no to a higher power that told him to take away the life of his own flesh and blood. He chose family over power, over legacy, over place. He gave up everything he knew and understood and came to America to run away from forces that threatened to harm his brother. 

God damn if it doesn’t make Jesse feel honored, humbled even, to be standing next to a man who has more strength than he’s ever known.

Jesse brings Hanzo back into his arms. He cradles Hanzo to his chest, holding him still, letting him clutch at his shirt for support, letting him lean on him. He runs a hand over his wet hair and squeezes tighter, praying it’s enough to help ease the pain in Hanzo’s heart, even for just a moment. 

“To do somethin’ like that Hanzo… It’s beyond admirable,” he whispers. “Your decision, fleeing from Japan to protect Genji, well, if that’s not the strongest kinda love out there, I really don’t know what is.” He takes a deep breath. “You and Genji didn’t deserve this. Family is supposed to love you, look after you, support you.”

“All I have left for family is Genji.” 

To McCree, he sounds so hopeless, haunted, dazed--as if Genji did die back in Japan. 

“Does Genji know?” 

Hanzo stiffens. “N-No. He does not.” He raises his gaze to meet Jesse, who has never seen such untamed fury in someone’s eyes before. “Do not tell him, or I swear, I will not hesitate to--”

“Hanzo,” Jesse says softly. “I won’t. I promise.” 

Hanzo sighs and rubs at his eyes. He looks lost in his own thoughts, conflicted, struggling with himself. He looks haggard, unkempt, like a man found wandering the desert on the brink of death. 

“Genji deserves a better brother,” Hanzo utters, ashamed.

“That isn’t true and you know it.” Jesse cups Hanzo’s cheek and caresses it gently. “You love Genji very much, and I know he loves you too.” He tilts Hanzo’s chin upwards with one finger. “What you’ve gone through, Hanzo, I can’t say I know what it’s like being in your exact shoes. But I know what it’s like to leave everything behind and to have to find someplace new that’s safe. No one deserves what you’ve gone through.

“I know what it’s like to question whether or not you can trust the people you meet while on the run. I know what it’s like to look over your shoulder too many times to keep track of.” He tries to speak with conviction, he tries to show Hanzo that his word is genuine. “I swear to you, I’m going to do what I can to help you. I’m here, Hanzo. You’ve been carryin’ this too long all by your lonesome, sweetheart, let me help.” 

_And if you’ll have me, I’ll keep you safe._ Jesse’s heart pangs with longing. 

“You don’t have to run no more. The people of this town are good folk. We look after each other. You and Genji have been livin’ with us these past couple of months. You’ve served ‘em their drinks, you’ve heard their stories, you’ve laughed with us, broken bread, and to us, you’re family.”

They stare at one another, unmoving, and Jesse lets the words sink into Hanzo. Hanzo studies him in silence, and Jesse can’t help but hold his breath. 

Then, Hanzo nods, slowly. He releases a sigh of relief. “It… It does feel better, hearing you say this.”

“I mean every word, Hanzo Shimada.” 

To seal the vow, Jesse takes Hanzo’s left hand and kisses the back of it with his eyes closed. His lips trail lower, lingering against the warm skin of his inner wrist where the bottom of his tattoo rests. He swears he feels Hanzo tremble. 

Hanzo breathes deep, helping himself calm down. He looks tired from his archery and from their conversation, but he still manages to smile half-heartedly at Jesse. 

“You are so willing to rush into the unknown for me.” 

“I’d do anything to protect someone I care about,” he smiles half-heartedly. “And I’d do whatever it took to keep you safe, even take a bullet for ya, darlin’.”

Hanzo buries his head into Jesse’s chest. Jesse runs his fingers through Hanzo’s hair, soothing the emotions that have risen to the surface. Hanzo clutches onto Jesse like he’s still hanging from a cliffside. Jesse closes his eyes and rests his head against Hanzo’s. He breathes deeply, and the pitter patter of rain onto his hat rings like a gentle lullaby. Hanzo softens in his arms, letting the tension ebb, and he sighs once more. 

When he opens his eyes again, Hanzo looks up and his head moves closer to Jesse’s. The air gets sucked right out of Jesse’s lungs. His eyes widen. His heart races and thuds in his chest hard. Hanzo pulls back, cautious, with a hint of red blossoming across his cheeks. Jesse tilts his head forward, lets his warm breath mingle with Hanzo’s, but he does not push further. 

_I want you to want me, to need me._

Hanzo’s gaze flickers from Jesse’s eyes to his mouth. He sucks in a sharp breath and swallows thickly. 

Jesse has all the time in the world, and he makes it known with a friendly smile. 

Hanzo closes his eyes and meets Jesse half-way for a kiss by leaning upward. 

Warmth spreads all across Jesse’s body. He holds Hanzo close, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other cupping the base of his neck and threading into his shoulder length hair. He caresses the small of his back tenderly, and he makes no lewd or teasing comments as they share this quiet moment together. 

Hanzo presses back, timidly, with his hands braced against Jesse’s chest. 

The kiss settles the ache in Jesse’s bones. It’s a gentle, soft kiss, one punctuated by how much Jesse wants to show Hanzo how much he cares. Oh, how he wants Hanzo to be happy here, with him. He wants nothing more than to show Hanzo that he’s good on his word. He wants Hanzo to be able to breathe easy--to start enjoying life rather than feeling burdened by his own existence.

The kiss ends when Hanzo leans away slowly, as if hesitant to part. Jesse cups his cheek and they share another smile with their foreheads pressed together. 

There’s happiness in this relief. Jesse knows the feeling all too well: the moment when you realize maybe everything will turn out okay, maybe there is a way to come back from rock bottom, maybe there’s hope for you yet if you don’t give up. 

“Let’s get you back inside, Hanzo, and outta this storm.” 

Hanzo picks up his discarded bow and arrows and takes Jesse’s offered hand. Jesse’s heart leaps in his chest. 

They head back to the saloon, with Jesse’s arm wrapped around Hanzo’s shoulder.


	15. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo and Genji join Ana on a trip to the valley to pick up supplies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My co-author and I would like to thank [ tigerbunnybyphysx](http://tigerbunnybyphysx.tumblr.com/post/150213155643/how-can-i-wait-if-you-tease-me-like-that-jack) for drawing a picture of Jack and Gabe enjoying the hot springs, as referenced in chapter 10 by Jesse, and to [ Ecchima ](http://ecchima.tumblr.com/post/150283089385/guess-who-stood-up-past-their-1am-to-finish-a) for their piece of Hanzo that is based upon the ending of chapter 14. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos, from the bottom of our hearts. Without further ado, enjoy the chapter!

"Brother! Brother come look at this!" 

Hanzo glances over his shoulder to see Genji peering down at a strange wooden container with a curved top. It has metal grating on the front and a shiny coat of chestnut colored stain. He walks over to his brother's side and raises a brow. Couldn’t Genji sit still for just a few minutes?

"Jesse needs one of these." 

"What is it?" 

"It's called a radio. It plays music, provides information, tells stories, and people talk over radio waves for free. I read about one of these in Amelie's catalogue. They are all the rage in the big cities." 

"Hmm." Hanzo runs his fingers over the top of the radio's casing, curious. He finds a knob and flicks the device on. 

Fast-paced music fills the general store Hanzo and Genji wandered into while Ana did her grocery shopping. The music comes out clearer than the gramophone Jesse has back at the saloon. 

"How do you tell the radio what to play?" 

"You don't, Hanzo." Genji laughs, and Hanzo's cheeks flush in embarrassment. "I know there are a few different stations. A government one, one located in Los Angeles, and I believe another based up North. The government run one relays news, while the other ones play music, stories, and talk shows. I’m sure there are more. It's up to the station to decide what they play or talk about." 

"It sounds practical." 

"I wonder if Jesse would like something like this for the saloon." 

Hanzo raises a brow at his brother, who simply shrugs with a smile. 

Genji moves on to look at the other latest items city dwellers in the valley get to purchase and enjoy. The general store bursts with items that haven't quite made it out to the stores in Twenty Nine Palms. Hair-dryers, refrigerators, freezers, dishwashers--all new inventions meant to help make living more convenient, more efficient, and more productive. 

Hanzo looks down at the little paper sign that shows the price of the radio. He scoffs; it’s far more expensive than he thought it would be. The saloon already has a gramophone to play music. Sure, Hanzo has heard the same songs over and over from the same records to the point where it's no longer phased him, but the music did seem to please Jesse’s customers. 

A hand clapped onto his back startles Hanzo from his thoughts. 

"Looks like you're interested in this mighty fine new radio we shipped in from Los Angeles today. She's a beauty, ain't she? The wooden case is made out of real Pine wood, and it's got great sound. Did you turn it on? She'll purr once she gets goin', if ya know what I mean." 

It's a radio, not a person. Why did Americans have to talk about possessions as if they were living things? Hanzo abstains from rolling his eyes. 

"For all the parts and components it's about $150, but for you, since you seem like you've got a special someone on the mind, I'll only charge you $120. It's a steal, my friend. A bona fide steal." 

Hanzo resists the urge to retch at the smell of the salesman's rank cologne and cigarettes on his breath. He tries to shuffle to the side but the man insists on standing close by, hovering like carrion circling a carcass. 

"And unlike the radios my competitor down the street's sellin', this little lady will pick up five stations as opposed to three.

Hanzo stares at the radio, ignoring the sales pitch. He closes his eyes briefly and imagines bringing it back to the saloon. He contemplates whether or not Jesse really would appreciate a gift like this. They could keep in touch with events around the world beyond what the little town's newspaper covered. He imagines building it and presenting it to Jesse, with the cowboy smiling and calling it a beauty or some such American nonsense. Then Jesse would pull him close, embrace him, and the foolish cowboy would lean in and…

“Ah, so I see. You _do_ have special someone on the mind. A lovely bride? A handsome groom? This radio would make a lovely addition to any sitting area. Kids love it too. So what’d’ya, pal? Can I wrap ‘er up and ring you up?” 

Hanzo coughs politely and collects himself. He widens his stance, effectively pushing the salesman out of his space, and he narrows his gaze onto the other man's eyes. 

"I will pay $100 for this. Nothing further. Otherwise I will take my business to your competitor down the street."

The man's slimy expression fades immediately. He looks like he's been punched in the gut. He scrambles to put himself back together moments later, when he realizes Hanzo is more than serious. 

"Well, sir, friend, I'm already givin' you quite the steal, here. Not really kind of ya to be bargainin' like this." 

Hanzo scoffs. He's played this game too many times with loftier business adversaries and won. He doesn't care if Americans don't barter. He isn't about to be tricked by some two bit charleton. 

"Then thank you for your time, but I will be taking my business elsewhere." Hanzo turns to leave and calls for his brother. "Genji, we are leaving. Let's try the general store down the street." 

Genji looks over his shoulder, and he and his brother share a brief glance. He places the tin he held in his hands back onto the shelf. 

"Very well." 

There's a twinkle in Genji's eyes, a slight upturn of a grin. Of course Genji knows Hanzo's endgame. They barely make it a few steps away before the salesman speaks up in a panic. 

"Now, hey, wait. Alright. Fine. What about $110." 

"I will pay $100. You have five seconds to decide before I leave." 

The salesman doesn't hesitate. "Fine. Fine. $100. I'll ring you up." He picks up the radio from the shelf and heads to the back of the store to package it up. 

Genji walks away and returns to the shop's counter with three small containers in hand. He places them on top of the wooden ledge and whistles to himself. 

Hanzo purses his brows in curiosity. He picks up one container labeled "Band Aids" and looks to Genji for an explanation. 

"They're for Angela. They are adhesive bandages--the latest in medical advancements. For smaller cuts and injuries. She has been suffering from some nasty blisters from her shoes. I thought she might like to try them as a means of alleviating the pain. If she likes them, Jesse can order more." 

Hanzo shrugs. It's Genji's money, even if he thinks Reinhardt and Torbjorn shouldn't be paying him so generously. His eyes drift to the two remaining tin containers. One features a picture of a white man grinning toothily with fangs and horns atop his head, wielding a pitchfork with fire around him. The other features the name 'Romeos' with red hearts on the gold tin. 

"What are 'Devil's Skin' and 'Romeos'?" 

Genji smirks. He leans against the counter and runs a hand through his hair, in an attempt to smooth back loose flyaways. 

"The Romeos are for me, the Devil's Skin is a gift for Jesse." 

Hanzo narrows his brows. He picks up the Devil's Skin container and reads the fine print at the bottom. 

_Three Rubber Prophylactics._

"Explain what these are, _now,_ Genji." 

Genji takes the tin of Romeos and pops open the container. Hanzo peers down at the contents. He sees small rubber circles curled upon themselves.

"I don't know what these are." 

Genji chuckles. "Of course you don't.” 

Hanzo realizes from the tone of Genji’s voice that he has walked into a carefully laid trap. It’s not often he finds himself at the behest of Genji’s mercy, but today he hopes his brother won’t take pleasure in rubbing in the fact he knows something he doesn’t. 

“My poor, poor brother. Will he remain a clueless virgin forever?” 

Just what was Genji implying? What did his status as a virgin have to do with two tin cans of rubber?

“We may never know." Genji sighs dramatically and winks at his brother, who has turned bright red from shock and anger. 

"Do not fret, Hanzo. These are the Roaring Twenties, after all, as the papers like to say. Perhaps anything is possible." Genji lowers his voice. "They're for love-making. A man puts them on his--" 

Any hope of a quiet conversation evaporates immediately. 

"I don't want to know! I don't care to know! Why are you buying these for yourself and for the damn cowboy!" 

"It's to prevent pregnancy and to stop the transmission of diseases." 

Hanzo gapes. He no longer cares that they're in the middle of a busy general store full of other customers in a town they've never been to. If Genji is going to have no shame, no modesty, why should he? 

"What sort of barbaric relations are you planning on engaging in with Doctor Ziegler that you are going to be catching diseases!" 

"It's for protection! It's to be safe!" 

"Are you planning on marrying Doctor Ziegler sometime soon?!"

"I don't need to marry her in order to sleep with her, Hanzo! This isn't the 19th Century!" 

"You have only known her for three months!" 

"Mother and father only knew each other for a few days before getting married!"

Hanzo groans. He hopes the damn salesman hurries up with the radio so they can leave and never come back. 

"I love Angela very much and her and I have spoken about this. She asked if I would buy these!" 

Hanzo shakes his head. He runs a hand over his face and curses under his breath in Japanese. He drums his fingers against the counter’s surface. His focus falls to the Devil’s Skin package. His nose wrinkles in annoyance. 

"Tell me why are you buying them for McCree. Now, Genji." 

"Why do you think?" 

Hanzo scowls, but Genji doesn't relent.

"Put those back. _Now_." 

"No." 

Hanzo wants to bury his head into the sand and never come up for air. He wants to fall on his sword. He's ready to ascend to another level of being. He can never show his face here ever again. They can never return. After standing his ground against a salesman seeking to rip them off, he’s now lost all the pride and confidence he exuded. Everyone around them is looking and gaping at the lewd nature of their conversation. Some women left the store in an angry huff, loudly exclaiming how God sends people who sleep together out of wedlock to Hell. 

Why did he even agree to coming out here with Mrs. Amari? Why did he dare invite Genji? 

"Sono doyagao yamete." 

Genji rolls his eyes and grins. "You'll thank me later." 

"No, I will not, because you are not buying those for McCree." 

"Why not? He will need them, too, I imagine, since I noticed that you both have, as they say, kissed and made up." 

Hanzo stiffens. He turns his head away quickly and wishes he had kept his hair down to hide his flush. Yes, he and the stupid cowboy had moved on from their quarrel. Yes, they were speaking again. It did not mean they were about to sleep together like something out of Genji's raunchy novels. He folds his arms across his chest. He wishes this argument would cease already, he wishes Genji would declare himself the victor and be done with it. 

"I wonder if you even know how two men consummate their affections." 

Hanzo gasps. "Genji! Please!" He laments. "This is private. We are in a public place. You are embarrassing me beyond belief. I did not invite you to come with me for you to do this to me. Have some manners. _Behave._ Please." 

"Fine, fine. Very well. I'll spare your over-sensitive feelings." 

The radio salesman comes out with the radio packaged neatly. Hanzo expected no less. 

“Please add these items to the total as well,” Genji gestures to the three tins.

The salesman makes a face, as if he’s just as put off about this sale as Hanzo is for paying for it. Hanzo pays for the items with clear distaste, and he murmurs to the seller to send the packaged items to the train depot nearby. He can’t believe he just paid for Genji’s… intimate products. He retches at the thought. 

The two brothers leave the store and head out into the hot fall sun. It’s almost October and yet the heat has returned in full force. At least inside the store it was cool, with overhead fans shifting air around. Outside, the air is stale and the sun boiling. State Street, Redlands bustles about as people do their shopping for the day. 

They came with Ana Amari to the valley after she announced she was heading here to pick up last minute supplies for her daughter’s upcoming birthday party happening tomorrow. Hanzo went to pick up McCree’s latest shipment of supplies for him. Genji wanted to come to pick out a gift for Angela (and apparently to pick up those lewd items). Most importantly, they were here to pick up a young girl from the train station: Hana Song. 

The previous evening, Sheriff Morrison and Gabriel Reyes asked if Ana could meet the girl at the station in their stead. The two men had to leave with a group of US Marshals late last night for a scouting mission. The two men could not reveal the details to the crowd at the saloon, but that the circumstances were unfortunately untimely but necessary. 

_Gabe and I are in the process of adopting her as our ward,_ Jack had explained at the saloon during dinner. _Her case manager wired us to let us know that they found no next of kin. All of the paperwork’s been signed and submitted. So she’ll be able to stay in California with us._

_My oldest sister Maria will be riding the train with her, Gabriel added, and she’ll meet you at the station with Hana._

Hanzo and Genji learned a little about who this Hana Song is from the following conversation. A ten year old girl born from Korean immigrants who lived on a small farm out in the desert. Her entire family had been killed during a Los Muertos raid, with her as the sole survivor. They found her huddled under the wreckage of the home the gang burned down after looting. She lost everyone close to her. They found the smoking husk of a ranch while riding together in the desert, and they found her and took her in. Since then, she’s been living with Jack and Gabe for the past year while they searched for any relatives in America and Korea. Eventually, they traced the family name back to Korea, and for the past three months she has been staying with Gabriel’s family in Los Angeles while a social worker handled the final logistics of the adoption process. 

Word of Hana being able to stay and live with the Sheriff and his husband lifted the town’s spirits after a brief time of somber quiet with the rain and tension in the air between Hanzo and McCree. Everyone became a little emotional when Jack and Gabriel revealed the news. The young girl seemed to be well loved, spoiled, and wanted. 

“The train will be arriving in under an hour,” Hanzo tells Genji. “If you’re finished embarrassing not only me but yourself as well, perhaps we can get something to eat if you can behave.” 

“Come now Hanzo, it’s too much fun teasing you. You make it so easy. Admit it, you don’t care what those people in the store thought.” 

Hanzo bristles, but it’s less out of anger towards his brother and more towards himself. Genji is right; ultimately he doesn’t care, and _that’s_ the problem. 

“Ana said there’s a restaurant on the corner of this street. She said we can meet her there for lunch.” 

They walk past the other shops, idly looking at the wares in the windows as they pass each one. Genji stops frequently to comment on clothing on mannequins and at rich, luxurious items in the storefronts, and it doesn’t bother Hanzo, even if his stomach growls. They won’t return to the valley for a long time, likely. He’ll let his brother explore and enjoy the city life if time permits.

“I wish you wouldn’t act so flustered over the idea of Jesse taking a romantic interest in you.” 

Hanzo frowns. He was finally starting to get over the scene from the general store. Why did Genji have to keep bringing this up? Couldn’t he trust his own brother to handle these matters himself? 

“I don’t want to talk about it, Genji.” 

“You’re wearing the ribbon again.” 

Hanzo sighs. “If you’ve forgotten, I lost my previous one.” He pulls the tail of the silk yellow ribbon over his shoulder and touches it fondly, despite how defensive he sounds. “The weather here continues to be insufferable, and I need to keep my hair up, somehow, otherwise it will cling to the back of my neck. Jesse just so happened to have something available.”

“Oh yes, he ‘just so happened’ to have a silk ribbon lying about. Of course.” He shrugs. “There is no need to be so defensive, Hanzo. In fact I am very happy for you, I said I was, and that hasn’t changed. I was worried when you two weren’t speaking to each other, but I’m glad your lover’s spat has ceased.” 

“Why are you like this?” 

“Isn’t it obvious, anija?” Genji turns away from looking at a bookstore’s display. “I want you to be happy. I want you to know that I approve of Jesse. I think he is a funny, kind, interesting man. He seems to care about you, perhaps deeper than you might realize. Everyone can see it. I cannot for the life of me understand how you don’t acknowledge what you’re feeling. I wish you wouldn’t fight against it.” 

Hanzo shakes his head. He starts stalking away from the bookstore, but quickly realizes Genji isn’t following him. His brother has stepped into the shop without him. Hanzo scowls and backtracks to follow after him. 

He opens the door to the bookstore and a little bell chimes. The store reminds him of a small library with tall shelves holding hundreds of books, some new, some musty and old. He sees his brother speaking with the store’s only clerk near a stack of books piled taller than the two men. The older man points with a smile at a section of the store and then Genji disappears into the stacks. 

Hanzo nods toward the owner and walks up to his brother, who stands with his head tilted to read the titles on the spines of books. He pulls out one book and smiles. 

“Reinhardt told me there’s a sequel to the book I last read to Angela. I wanted to gift it to her along with the band-aids.” Genji glances from the book to Hanzo. “I saw you bought Jesse the radio. A rather expensive gift, but I think he will be very happy with it. It will bring joy to him, I think, and it will provide new entertainment to his customers.” 

Hanzo looks away from his brother to attempt to hide the blush on his face. Genji offers the book to Hanzo-- _The Curse of the Crested Eagle._ The title sounds innocuous enough, but the cover is anything but. 

“I can’t believe you read these kinds of stories.”

Genji snorts and takes the book back. “You can try to fool me all you like, but I know you enjoyed the books we used to read together growing up.” He smiles wryly. “In fact, I know a good title you should read.” 

Hanzo has no time to protest as Genji begins to run his fingers over the spines. He pulls out a book and shoves it into Hanzo’s hands. 

“You need to read this.”

Hanzo sighs wearily. He makes the mistake of looking down at the obnoxious cover of a masked man dressed in all black kneeling next to a lawman bound in ropes and gagged before a campfire. The obvious outlaw wears a smirk on his face and holds the tied man’s pale chin while leaning close. _Young Bucks,_ by Francis B. Corgin. He turns the book over quickly, his face burning up, and he wishes he hadn’t started reading the summary. 

_The year is 1869. Four years have passed since war tore the nation apart. Struggle still rages on within the hearts of American youth. War changed the landscape and the country's men. John Tanner, a US Army Ranger, is one such man. Tasked with tracking down and bringing to justice the infamous outlaw Michael Luck, Tanner doesn't expect the outlaw to not only steal his horse... but also his heart._

Hanzo groans. “I am _not_ reading this.” 

“Why not? I promise it’s worth reading. It’s very well written, very suspenseful, and very exciting. I promise you’ll enjoy it. Give it a chance.” 

Hanzo swallows hard. He can hear Jesse McCree’s voice in the back of his mind whispering, _Give me a chance._ His heart thuds in his chest. A small part of him wants to indulge the idea of vicariously living through the narrative between the pages, to fantasize about what it would be like to experience what Jesse McCree seems to be offering. His throat feels dry. He grips the book tightly in his hand, swallows hard, and then shakes his head. He has the guts to fight against villainous men who seek to harm townspeople in Twenty Nine Palms, but he doesn’t have the guts to buy a harlequin novel about two men falling in love. 

“No, Genji.” 

Hanzo leaves before Genji can partake in another loud argument for the bookstore’s other patrons to overhear. He heads outside to the street and takes a deep breath to help still his thoughts. He leans back against the side of the brick building and closes his eyes only to see Jesse McCree staring back with a cigar between his teeth, with his chapped lips curled into a grin, and with his face unshaven, unkempt, and dirty from a hard day’s work. It’s a torturous, magnificent sight. Even miles away the stupid cowboy has an effect on him. The summer heat gives him no relief from the thoughts racing through his head. 

Yes, he and Jesse had made up. Yes, he and Jesse had… kissed. It had been a comforting gesture. The touches soft, warm, forgiving, understanding. The hand holding his squeezed back with empathy and compassion. The arms wrapped around him had felt safe, secure, and welcoming. It opened the door to them speaking again, and Hanzo had confessed their reasons for coming to California. Airing these burdens had helped. Hanzo slept peacefully that night, for once not plagued with the same recurring nightmares. 

The spirits of the saloon picked up in the following days. They laughed, shared drinks, and they even began practicing their shooting together--Hanzo with his bow and arrow and Jesse with _Peacekeeper._ He shared stories about his past growing up in Hanamura, even talking candidly about his mentor as a boy--Minoru Matsushita--who had helped teach him how to meditate and fight. Jesse shared about his family growing up outside of Santa Fe on a cattle ranch, about James, his brother, his mother, Mary Esqueda Lucia Narvais McCree, and his father, James McCree Senior. Hanzo participated in the evenings’ events each night. He listened to McCree and Gabriel play their guitars. He watched Genji and Angela dance with no spite soiling his mood. He did feel happy for them, even if he wanted his brother to be more careful and discrete. He began to wonder what it would be like to dance with Jesse McCree. 

Hanzo has always feared the unknown. It leaves him feeling vulnerable, exposed, and unsettled. His caution often pays off, even if Genji disapproves of his method of handling new situations. Exploring this new territory with Jesse McCree is a no man’s land of unknowns. The elders of Hanamura had plans for an arranged marriage for Hanzo--to be married to a woman, certainly, in order to have blood heirs. He was meant to marry a woman of high class, someone who would bring new wealth and new connections to the clan. Someone who would bear future heirs to carry on the legacy. Someone he wouldn’t have known until the few weeks prior to their wedding day. 

Hanzo knows little about close relationships outside of the one he has with his brother, and the only marital relationship he has as reference is that of their mother and father. Their cousin, Hinata, of course, had married shortly before they fled from Japan, but to Hanzo she did not seem happy with the choice of man the elders had made for her. Their mother and father, at least, had seemed happy, intimate, in a quiet, tender way.

Hanzo sighs. He didn’t even know he was attracted to men, not really, until he met McCree in front of the train station. Yes, looking back, there had been signs. There had been other business partners who Hanzo deeply admired and sought to emulate, but it had never felt romantic. Perhaps it had, in its own way. 

Genji is right, and Hanzo hates to admit it. He doesn’t even know how two men consummate their relationship. He had never even embraced someone who hadn’t been family before. The kiss was his first, ever, and it had felt…quiet, tender. Like something he had seen shared between his mother and father when before they retired for the evening. These questions are all new to him, but deep down, he knows he wants to explore them. 

Finally, Genji steps out into the midday sun with two books in his arms. Hanzo frowns. His brother bought the damned novel he told him not to purchase.

“You’ll read it someday when you’re desperate. I just know it.” 

Hanzo rolls his eyes. “No, I won’t.” 

“We’ll see.” 

“We need to meet Mrs. Amari at the restaurant. Are you finished buying things?” 

“Yes, I am. I think Angela and I will greatly enjoy the book. The bookstore owner was telling me about how he loved the sequel as much as the first one.” 

Hanzo makes a face. So people really did read this trash besides his brother? He can’t believe it. 

They find Ana Amari standing outside of the restaurant with a cloth bag full of baking goods for a birthday cake. She salutes to the brothers and smiles. 

“I see you two have been quite busy. We need to pick up Hana first then we can eat lunch before the next train leaves. Is that okay with you two boys?” 

“Of course, ma’am,” Genji says with a smile. “I’m very excited to meet this girl.” 

“She is very precious, a very sweet girl. A little rambunctious. She enjoys playing with Fareeha. You should see her, she follows Fareeha around like a baby duckling. It is rather adorable.” 

They head to the train station and head to the correct platform after Ana drops off her items with the rest of their cargo they plan to bring back to Twenty Nine Palms. Ana and Hanzo sit at one of the metal benches, waiting patiently, while Genji wanders the platform. Hanzo keeps an eye on him; his brother may be as skilled as he, but he’s not about to let Genji out of his sight in a foreign town. 

“Hanzo, come here!” 

Hanzo unfolds his arms and turns his attention to his brother. He sighs, excuses himself from Mrs. Amari, and joins his brother. 

“Look.” 

They stand before a wall covered in wanted posters. Hanzo’s eyes fall to the one Genji points at. It reads:

WANTED:

MAKO “ROADHOG” RUTILEDGE & JAMISON “JUNKRAT” FAWKES, GANGSTERS

FOR ESCAPING FEDERAL PRISON, ILLEGAL DISTRIBUTION OF OPIUM AND ALCOHOL, ROBBERY, ARSON.

$10,000 INDIVIDUALLY.

$30,000 IF BOTH CAPTURED.

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE. 

CONTACT LOS ANGELES SHERIFF’S OFFICE IMMEDIATELY IF ARRESTED OR FOUND DEAD.

The poster features a photograph of the two men. One appears rather rotund, the other slender. They both look manic, with their hair wildly displaced, with wide grins upon their dirty faces.

Hanzo’s attention wanders to the poster next to it.

WANTED: 

SCORPIO

LOS MUERTOS GANG RINGLEADER

FOR MURDER, BATTERY, ARSON, ROBBERY, FORGERY, & KIDNAPPING. 

APPREHEND WITH CAUTION.

REAL NAME UNKNOWN.

$50,000 REWARD.

PREFERABLY ALIVE. 

DELIVER TO NEAREST SHERIFF’S OFFICE.

The accompanying picture depicts a sketch of a woman with short black hair, a scowl, and scars across her face.

“Scorpio. Doesn’t that sound like something completely out of a novel?” 

“She is a wanted woman who has clearly committed heinous crimes. That is not fiction, Genji. She is the leader of the Los Muertos Gang.” Hanzo scoffs. “I hope she is apprehended soon. This gang is a nuisance to Twenty Nine Palms.” 

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

As Hanzo is about to turn and leave, Genji grabs his arm roughly, stopping him. He turns to look back, and his brother’s eyes are fixated upon the wanted poster on the far right side of the wall, one he himself had overlooked. Hanzo follows the gaze and he’s taken aback by what he sees.

WANTED: 

JESSE MCCREE

RINGLEADER OF THE INFAMOUS DEADLOCK GANG

FOR TRAIN ROBBERY, ARSON, MURDER, FORGERY, AND IMPERSONATION OF US MARSHALS. 

APPREHEND WITH EXTREME CAUTION.

$55,000 REWARD.

DEAD OR ALIVE.

CONTACT NEW MEXICO US MARSHALS OFFICE OR US ARMY IMMEDIATELY

UPON ARREST, APPREHENSION, OR DEATH.

Hanzo blinks rapidly at the poster before him. There’s no way the damn foolish cowman can be a _wanted_ man. But the picture is undeniably Jesse McCree. _His_ Jesse McCree.

In the wanted poster, Jesse is no doubt younger, but he wears the same stetson atop his head. His expression remarkably appears deadly. Without the full beard and instead a small goatee, he looks so young. Older than a teenager, but younger than his current age. His gaze pierces into onlookers, and even Hanzo, the once leader of Clan Shimada, feels shaken. It’s the look of a killer. It’s the look of a man who has no fear of God or divine punishment for his crimes. 

Robbery? Arson? Murder? Forgery? Impersonation? What was this Deadlock Gang Jesse had once led? How could the Jesse he knows commit these crimes? 

Then, it dawns on him. Hanzo has no place to judge Jesse McCree. The crimes listed under the names of most of these wanted individuals have been committed several times over by the Shimada Clan. He himself was raised to be able to take lives. He knows the art of torture and interrogation. How to make someone bleed slowly. He knows how to check for extortion in the ranks, he knows how to threaten the innocent without blinking. This is his legacy, after all. 

“I see you have noticed his poster. Hopefully you boys will not let this reshape your thinking of him,” Ana says quietly from behind. “Reinhardt once had a wanted poster in his name as well, when he defected during the war. He was deemed a traitor, and the German Army wanted to see him executed by firing squad. He had a bounty hunter pursue him days before he came to the church where he and I met. I love Reinhardt, and he too was a wanted man. Do not let this reshape how you think of Jesse. He is a good man.” 

“I wouldn’t think of it, Mrs. Amari,” Genji says with a half-hearted smile. “Jesse has been nothing but kind to myself and my brother.” 

“Everyone must escape from the bad decisions they have made in the past. Jesse has had to remain out of sight for many years. It is unfortunate to see that the wanted posters have spread to California. I will have to let him know.” 

Ana says it so matter-of-factly that Hanzo almost mistakes it as an expected development. 

“I know Jesse cares about you both. I hope you both give him a chance to explain his side of this story.” 

Hanzo continues staring at the wanted poster. Far from afraid, far from dismayed, he realizes that Jesse spoke from his own experience that day in the rain at the shooting range. 

_I know I haven’t exactly been forthcoming to really speak to that, but I mean it when I say that I know what it’s like. I know what it’s like to have to run and run and run and hope to God I find someplace safe where I can put my boots up at long last. I know what it’s like to carry heavy burdens. Regrets. I know what it’s like to have to look over my shoulder, but maybe if you give me a chance, maybe if you give this town a chance, we could help you. I mean really help you. You’d never have to be afraid of your shadow ever again. If you give me a chance, if you give me the honor of earnin’ your trust, I promise I won’t let you down._

The words carry deeper weight now. 

_Let he who is without sin cast the first stone._

Hanzo Shimada is not that man. 

Before Hanzo can continue lingering on the wanted poster of Jesse McCree, the sound of a train’s whistle disrupts his thoughts. They leave the wall of posters and join the gathered crowd waiting for the upcoming train. 

The train pulls into station and gradually slows down. Steam hisses from the stack and pipes underneath. Once at a complete stop, the attendants open the cars and people flood out. 

Hanzo doesn’t pay attention. He can’t stop thinking about the words murmured over the sound of the rain. He remembers the firmness in Jesse’s grip. He took it as a sign of comfort, but in hindsight, there’s now desperation. Had Jesse been looking for some kind of salvation in him, too? Some sense of familiarity? 

“Maria, over here!” 

Hanzo looks up. Ana Amari waves to another woman standing down the platform with a young girl at her side. Leather bound luggage rests beside them. He follows his brother and Ana to join with Maria Reyes and the girl, Hana Song, who can’t be any older than ten. 

Maria looks just like her older brother Gabriel. Tall, long dark brown hair, amber eyes, skin as dark as stained wood, with full hips. She wears a pair of black trousers and a blue button-up blouse. 

Hana Song comes to Maria’s thigh in height, with long chestnut hair falling down her shoulders. She wears a pink and white gingham dress and holds a stuffed bunny in her hands that wears a matching colored dress. 

Maria and Ana embrace, say their greetings, and then Ana introduces her two tagalongs. 

“This is Hanzo and Genji. They decided to come with me to the city. They are new to town.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” 

All eyes then turn to the little girl, who holds Maria’s hand. 

“Hello, Hana. It’s good to see you again.” 

“Hi Mrs. Amari. I missed you.” 

“Ah, well, I know I missed you too. Fareeha has been looking forward to your return. She’s happy you’ll be home in time for her birthday. Everyone else is so excited to see you again. I’m sorry your fathers couldn’t be here themselves. They have very important business they must take care of, but they send their love and a little gift for you.” 

Ana reveals a tiny package, and Hana’s shyness dissipates. She tears into the wrapping and reveals sweet bread. 

“Your father Gabriel made this for you before he and Jack had to leave for the day.” 

Hana grins. “Thanks for giving it to me Mrs. Amari!” 

“Of course, dear. They have something else they want to give you in person, too, once they’re home again.” 

Hana bites into the sweet bread without hesitation and then turns her attention to the two men she hasn’t yet met. She waves. 

“Hiya.” 

Genji bends down so that he’s at her level. “Hello, Miss Song, my name is Genji.” 

“Hanzo.” 

They each stick out their hand and shake with Hana while she enjoys her treat. 

“You are absolutely adorable,” Genji remarks. 

Hanzo smiles to himself while watching the giggling young girl and his brother interact. He can tell immediately that this child has been spoiled beyond belief from the look in her eyes. At the same time, he’s profoundly touched by the generosity and love of the town. McCree’s point has been proven once more. The people of Twenty Nine Palms seem content to take in strays, to help those without direction, to lend a hand where it’s needed. They don’t expect anything in return, but Hana returns their affection in kind. She wanted to stay with Jack and Gabriel.

The next train heading back home won’t pull into the station until two o’clock. Ana takes the new luggage to the attendant managing cargo and then returns to lead them all back to the restaurant where they met Ana before noon. 

Once they arrive, they all take a seat at a booth table inside. To Hanzo, the restaurant is nothing like the saloon back home. It’s classy and busy, with a constant influx of customers coming and going. The selection of food and drink is certainly more diverse than the _High Noon Saloon’s_ menu, excluding one item: alcohol. The sign at the beginning of the restaurant said it all: “NO ALCOHOL SOLD ON THE PREMISES”. 

They order and settle into the curved booth. Hana sits between Ana and Maria. Genji sits to the right of Maria, and Hanzo sits to the left of Ana. 

“So you’ve decided to spend some time in Twenty Nine Palms, hmm?” Ana asks after sipping from her cup of tea. 

“Yes. I wanted to accompany Hana, and I wanted to make sure everything was in order with my brother and Jack. I have no doubt they’re up for the task, they have been looking after her for the past year of course, I just want to help.” 

“That’s very kind of you.” 

“I also want to see them both one last time before I leave for university up North.” 

“I know they will be very happy to see you. How is the rest of your family?” 

“My abuela is sad to see Hana and I go, but we must. Frida and Rosa are still busy with school, and soon they will be leaving to go to university as well. How time flies.” 

“Indeed. Fareeha will soon be applying for university as well.” 

Their food arrives, and they eat while Maria talks about the train ride to Redlands from Los Angeles. Hearing someone else describe the scenery sounds so strange to Hanzo. Maria clearly loves the desert landscape seen on the train ride more than he did. 

“So, Hana, what do you like about Twenty Nine Palms?” Genji asks during a pause in Ana and Maria’s conversation. 

Hana takes a big bite from her sandwich, chews and swallows then wipes her mouth on the sleeve of her dress despite Maria and Ana’s disapproving stare. She clears her throat and then answers. 

“I like the people. I like my new dads, Jack and Gabriel, and I like my pet rabbit Miss Nesbit. I like Fareeha and I like Miss Lacroix my schoolteacher. I like Mrs. Amari because she gives me treats and Mr. Wilhelm carries me on his shoulders. Mr. Lindholm made me a train set for my birthday and it’s in my room back home. I like Miss Lena because she always makes me smile and she plays with Fareeha and me. I like Jesse because he makes me laugh and his beard tickles my face when he hugs me.” 

It’s by far the most innocent thing Hanzo has heard all day. Hearing the young girl speak with such love and conviction for her age leaves Hanzo feeling more overwhelmed than he expected. He never thought a desert wasteland could feel like home, but hearing Hana talk about it has moved him. 

“I miss my dads though. I miss my room. I miss my bunny.” 

“Your fathers have missed you very much, too, Hana, and they can’t wait to see you. They wanted me to tell you that your rabbit has missed you too. She prefers eating the food you give her.” 

Hana smirks. “Of course she does. I know how she likes her hay displayed.” 

Hanzo tunes out the conversation as it shifts to plans for Fareeha’s birthday party. While Hanzo and Genji have already purchased their gifts for the young teenage girl, Hanzo can’t focus on the talk of plans. He leans his head into his palm and thinks back to the God awful items Genji bought today and the wanted poster. 

Did it really matter, Jesse McCree’s past? If Hanzo’s didn’t matter, why would Jesse’s? If their regrets are actually cut from similar cloth, what did it matter if Jesse was a wanted man? If Hanzo could attempt to seek redemption then Jesse McCree deserved the right as well. 

Hanzo remembers Jesse pulling him along back to the saloon to dry off after their time spent in the rain several days ago. He remembers sitting together in front of the fireplace on the upper floor of Jesse’s saloon where he resided with towels wrapped around their shoulders. They didn’t talk about much--the silence between them far too companionable, soothing, tranquil. The warmth of the fire combined with Jesse’s body heat helped him calm down and allowed him to come to accept fully that Jesse now knew the truth about their reasons for traveling to America. The feeling of his shoulder touching Jesse’s shoulder felt as intimate and as new as the kiss. Quiet, tender. 

Ana pays for their meal after insisting upon handling the bill, and they all return to the train station. Genji and Hana have immediately taken to one another. He carries her on his shoulders and she giggles in delight. The sight of his brother laughing with her warms his heart and eases his spirit. 

They really are doing this, aren’t they? They really _are_ becoming part of the town--perhaps part of a bigger family again as well.

Without hesitation, Hanzo returns to the wall full of wanted posters and tears down the poster for Jesse McCree after checking to see if attendants are around. He folds it and discretely places it in his trouser pocket. If Hanzo and Genji are truly to become part of this family, then they have to be willing to step into the arena for them, too, and fight. Hanzo chooses to protect McCree as the cowboy vowed to protect him. Jesse McCree deserves more than a hangman’s noose.

x X x 

On the train ride back to Twenty Nine Palms, Hanzo stares out the dirtied window of the dining car and experiences deja-vu. Beside him, his brother dozes off with Hana sleeping next to him. Ana and Maria talk amongst themselves; he hasn’t followed their conversation closely, but it was something about sewing. The landscape passes by slowly, and this time, instead of feeling irritated by the repeated motifs of cactus, cactus, and more cactus, Hanzo sees new components of the desertscape he must have overlooked before.

How could Hanzo have missed the bountiful orchards of orange groves? How could he miss the tall, steep mountain ranges? How could he miss the highs and lows of foothills and canyons? Even the cactus shows its own diversity: some are tall, with multiple branches, some are small and bulbous, some have spiked points, and many have pink and orange flowers. The train passes by these sights and leaves him with a sense of awe and wonder. 

Perhaps Hanzo misjudged this land too soon. Perhaps he has newfound reason to find beauty in the unusual, the foreign. 

Genji shifts his weight as he lays with his head upon his brother’s shoulder and a trail of drool slides down his chin, daring to follow onto Hanzo. Hanzo abstains from waking Genji up over it and simply sighs. He looks down into his brother's lap and sees the two novels lying there. 

Curiosity gets the better of Hanzo. He looks across the dining table to where Ana and Maria chat away without pause quietly. They’re distracted. Hanzo deftly reaches into his brother’s lap and slowly removes the _Young Bucks_ novel, praying Genji doesn’t wake. Eventually his brother will realize the book has disappeared, but he doesn’t want to prematurely discuss why he’s suddenly interested in it. 

When he succeeds at taking the book without waking Genji or Hana or without catching the attention of the two other women, he turns away from the group and leans against the window to stare down at the cover, breathless. The picture of a man tied and without control makes Hanzo blush. 

His fingers hesitate. Should he really read something like this? 

His secret interest wins over his doubt. He quietly opens the book to the first page of the prologue. 

_After fighting for the Union for four long years, John Tanner thought war finally had moved past him. He was wrong…_

x X x 

They arrive back in town just in time for dinner at the _High Noon Saloon._ They leave their luggage and cargo at the swinging panel doors and are greeted with everyone but Jesse, Jack, and Gabriel waiting for them. Dinner’s all laid out for them on the counter, but the cook is nowhere to be seen.

“Ah, meine Frau! Welcome back! You were gone so long!” Reinhardt picks up his wife and brushes his nose against hers. “Fareeha and I missed you terribly.”

Ana smiles and kisses his big nose. “I was only gone for a day!”

Reinhardt blushes. He sets her back onto her feet and sighs, content. “Ah, too long, too long.” 

Angela comes up to Genji and kisses his cheek with a smile. “Did the city treat you and the others well?”

“Greatly.” Genji winks to Hanzo. “We had a good time.” 

Everyone hugs Hana at least once, welcoming her back home. Reinhardt spins her and the young girl giggles in delight. She then joins Fareeha, her closest friend at one of the tables, and immediately the two begin to talk about the trip. 

Maria joins Ana, Lena, and Amelie at one of the booths while Reinhardt returns to his usual seat at the bar besides Torbjorn. Angela and Genji take their usual place at the corner booth where they talk and share about each other’s day. Hanzo has no doubt Genji will give Angela his gifts at a later time in private. 

Hanzo says his greetings and heads behind the counter to the kitchen. He picks up his apron along the way and then steps inside. He hears the cook before he sees him. He finds Jesse grilling steaks over an open flame carefully while whistling cheerfully.

Jesse turns to reach for one of the spice containers on the nearby rack and catches sight of Hanzo. Immediately he smiles and nods his head. 

“Howdy, Hanzo. Welcome back home. Glad you could make it back in time for the dinner rush.” He turns back to the grill and presses the sizzling meat into the metal rack with a utensil. “I’ve gotten so used to havin’ you around for help I gotta admit I felt like a chicken runnin’ around like it’s head cut off without you. I don’t know how I ever managed without ya cause I sure as hell--” 

Jesse stops speaking abruptly when he realizes Hanzo has moved beside him. He blushes with a sheepish laugh. “I… uh… I guess I missed you today.”

Hanzo nods. He places his hand on Jesse’s shoulder and then smiles softly at him. “Let me help you finish these steaks and then come outside. Hana wants to see you, and I want to show you something.” 

“Alright, sure thing, pardner. I gotta say though it’s Hana who’s gonna be wantin’ these steaks. She’s a growin’ girl and boy howdy does she have a mighty appetite. Never met another girl as small as her who eats as much.” 

“You’re joking.” 

“No, I’m quite serious, Hanzo. Steak is that little girl’s favorite dish and I’ll be damned if she doesn’t get what she wants on her homecoming.”

Hanzo snorts in amusement. “How very kind of you.”

“These are almost done. What’s it you want me to see?” 

“Patience. You will see soon enough.” 

“Tease,” Jesse murmurs under his breath but loud enough for Hanzo to hear. “Grab those plates and we’ll serve these up for our little princess Hana.” 

Hanzo helps service the saloon’s patrons. Jesse says hello to Hana after delivering her plate that’s as big as her head. He embraces her and ruffles her hair. It’s evident already that the two are close. 

Once everyone has a hearty, freshly cooked piece of steak and a side of vegetables, Hanzo brings Jesse outside to the main hall. Along the way, he catches his brother’s glance. Genji gives him a thumb’s up. 

“What’s this about, Hanzo? I’m starvin’ too.” 

“I promise it’s worth your patience, cowboy.” 

They stop before the luggage and the large wrapped package at the door of the saloon. 

“Open this package. It’s a gift. For you.”

“Aw. Hanzo. Ya shouldn’t have.” 

Jesse kneels down and starts tearing at the paper until the radio Hanzo bought him is slowly revealed. He pushes apart the torn paper and then stares at the gift with wide eyes. 

“Wow, Hanzo! It’s a…” He looks over to him with his brows pursed. “Uhm, what is it?” 

“It’s called a radio. Haven’t you seen one of these before in one of those catalogues?” 

“To be honest I don’t really look at those. I use the old issues Amelie gives me for tinder.” 

Hanzo sighs. He shakes his head. 

“It’s a device that picks up radio frequencies that sometimes play music, provide news, read books, or host talk-shows. There are instructions to put some of the additional wires and antenna together. I imagine Mr. Lindholm will have no trouble with it.” 

“So you’re sayin’ it’s like a gramophone and a newspaper kinda all in one?” 

“How have you not heard of this technology?” 

“Hanzo I don’t really keep up with all the latest gadgets and gizmos. All I need are the basics. I’m a simple man.”

Hanzo frowns. He reaches up to scratch his neck. “So… Are you saying you don’t want it?” 

“No!” Jesse stands up and takes Hanzo by the shoulders. “Of course I want it! Hell, I think it’ll be a great addition for the saloon once it’s put together and I can figure it out. If it does all the things you say it does then I think it’ll really bring in customers and it’ll keep everyone in town informed or entertained.” His lopsided smile sends a shiver down Hanzo’s spine. “I love it. It’s thoughtful and practical. Thank you for bringin’ it home for us.” 

Hanzo sighs in relief. The two of them pick up the radio and carry it to one of the tables pushed against a wall. 

“Hey Torbjorn, you mind givin’ us a hand after dinner helping us put this thing together?...”

x X x 

“I don’t think I have ever seen as small of a child as Hana consume so much food in one sitting.”

“Growin’ pains and all that.” Jesse says over his shoulder while pouring them both a drink. “She burned it off pretty fast chasin’ Fareeha all over the saloon.”

Hanzo chuckles and rests back in his chair. Hanzo liked the little girl. She reminds him of Genji when he was a younger boy, constantly wanting to play, curious, talkative, and rushing around the adults wanting attention. 

He watches Jesse’s back, his gaze lingering more than he’d admit aloud, and he smiles to himself. After serving the guests after another long evening filled with music, dancing, and now the latest news coming to them from the city thanks to the radio, they came upstairs to have a drink like they have made a habit of doing. The last time he was in Jesse McCree’s room, they sat together before his fireplace to dry off, shared a drink like they do now, and enjoyed the companionable silence. 

Jesse turns and brings the two half-full glasses of whiskey to the table, sliding it over to Hanzo. He sits down across from his friend, leans back in his chair, and props his crossed legs up on top of the table’s surface. He holds up his glass to Hanzo, who does the same. They toast and then both take a drink. The rich amber colored liquor tickles his throat, spreading warmth through his chest. 

“So I gotta say, I didn’t know what to really expect when I first saw that radio, but the others seemed to really like it.” He winks across the table to Hanzo. “So believe me when I say how much I appreciate the gift. It means a lot to me. It’s a special thing cause it’s from you. I reckon it must’ve cost you an arm’n’leg.” 

Hanzo hums in approval. He finishes the rest of his glass and sets it down. His fingers drum against the solid wooden table, and he stares down at its empty contents.

“So how was the city? Did it treat you and Genji kindly? Ana said you both picked up a couple’a books, I think?” 

Hanzo’s head snaps into attention. He looks to Jesse and purses his brows. He had been discreet on the train! How could she have seen him? He keeps a cool exterior despite the thudding in his chest. 

“Genji did, yes.” 

“Oh yeah? What’d he pick up? Anything good?” 

“I don’t know,” Hanzo murmurs and shrugs. “Whatever it is he enjoys reading.”

“Oh come now, I know your brother’s talked plenty about how you two used to enjoy a good book together when ya’ll were kids.”

“Perhaps when we were boys, but that was very long ago. I don’t have to time to sit down and read.”

“That’s a damn shame.” Jesse swings his legs off of the table and heads to his bedside table. He fishes into the nightstand’s only drawer and pulls out a weathered, well-read book. He returns to his seat and offers it to Hanzo. “Probably one of the best novels I’ve ever read--and I’ve read a lot. I got a little misty eyed myself with the ending, but I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.” 

Hanzo’s gaze falls to the outstretched book in Jesse’s hand. His stomach flips. He knows that cover, even in its current state of disrepair. 

“It’s about an outlaw and a ranger who set aside their differences and fall in love. Guess I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic deep down.” 

Hanzo swallows thickly and blushes. He may be a quiet, soft-spoken man on most occasions, but he’s never been left speechless. He hates how the sight of this damn cover sends a shiver of want down his spine. He takes the book against his better judgment. 

“Title’s a bit corny though. _Young Bucks?_ I think the author was runnin’ out of ideas.” Jesse grins. “Take it. I can loan it to you for awhile. Give it a shot, you might like it.”

“I…” Hanzo sighs. For being a clever man, he sure feels like a fool. “Keep it, Jesse,” he murmurs, “I already have a copy.” 

“Huh? What was that? I couldn’t hear you.” 

Hanzo glares. “You heard me.” 

“Hanzo! Really! I didn’t!” 

“I already have a copy, you damn cowboy.” 

“What happened to being called ‘cowman’?”

Hanzo’s shoulders slacken into a slouch. He runs a hand over his face and tosses the book haphazardly back onto the table. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. 

“Are you finished?”

“Alright, alright, Hanzo. I’m sorry. It’s just so easy to tease you. I don’t mean nothin’ bad from it, really.” McCree smirks mischievously. “I hope you enjoy it. I’ll be curious to hear what you think of the dashing outlaw. He’s probably one of the most complex characters I’ve ever read about in a novel.”

Hanzo scoffs. Were he, Genji, and McCree all talking about the same book? Where was this serious sounding novel his brother and Jesse seemed to be referencing? He has only read three chapters so far, and while the author has had his moments of profoundly written prose, the story… left Hanzo feeling unsettled and unsure. The tension between the two main characters was half-hearted, at best. 

“I have a hard time believing that.” 

Jesse finishes his glass and sets it back down onto the table. “Well maybe you’ll like it, maybe you won’t. Let me know when you’re finished with it and we can talk about it. ” 

Jesse gets up and retrieves the whiskey to pour them both another glass. Hanzo watches McCree closely, and his thoughts continue to the drift to the novel. Why would an outlaw and a ranger, two men on opposite sides of the law, find common ground, let alone start a relationship together? The premise alone seemed lacking. Michael Luck was a wanted man, he was being hunted down by marshals, rangers, and bounty hunters for his infamous crimes. Why would a ranger who led a good, wholesome life fall for a no good scoundrel on the run? Why would he sacrifice his career, his livelihood, and his reputation to be with someone so flawed? 

Suddenly the folded parchment in Hanzo’s trouser pocket feels heavier, noticeable, as if he’s carrying not a wanted poster, but a warrant for Jesse’s immediate arrest. Hanzo looks up right as Jesse turns with two refilled glasses. The cowboy notices that something’s wrong, and Hanzo curses to himself. He doesn’t like how Jesse can read him so easily as of late.

“Why the long face?”

Hanzo sighs. There’s no use avoiding the topic. “There’s something serious we need to discuss, Jesse.” 

“Uh oh. I’m not gonna like this, am I?”

Hanzo doesn’t hesitate to explain. “While in the city, Genji and I saw this at the train station.” Hanzo fishes into this pocket and reveals the folded, worn paper. He opens it up and lays it flat against the surface of the table. “I thought it should be brought to your attention.” 

“Oh.”

Hanzo gapes and narrows his gaze. “Oh? Just ‘oh’? This is serious, Jesse! Are you aware that you have posters demanding your arrest in the next town over?” 

“They didn’t use to be there,” Jesse says quietly. All pretense of humor and light-heartedness evaporates like water on a boiling hot day. “Guess I figured they wouldn’t make it as far as California.” He pauses and runs a hand over his scruffy beard. “Did…uh… Did Hana see it?”

“No. Mrs. Amari, Genji, and I made sure she didn’t.” 

McCree sighs in relief. He closes his eyes and collects himself. When they open again, he chuckles to himself and winks across the table to Hanzo. 

“So, what, were you lookin’ to cash in on this here bounty?”

Hanzo slams his fist against the table, jostling the glasses and leaving the table’s foundation wobbly. The force of the movement dislodges loose hairs from Hanzo’s high pony-tail. “Do you truly think me so low that I would betray your trust and even consider doing that?” 

“Woah now, that ain’t what I meant.” Jesse holds up his hands in defense. “Sorry Hanzo, I was just foolin’, and I realize now that I made that joke in bad taste. I know you would never turn on me for a little cash.”

“You shouldn’t be making light of this!” 

Hanzo bolts upright from his chair and comes over to where Jesse McCree sits. He grabs Jesse by the collar of his shirt and yanks him upright. The table rocks, having been shaken by the force of Hanzo’s pull, and Jesse braces himself against Hanzo with his hands on his shoulders. He gets into McCree’s face and growls. “Do you actually want to be arrested? Do you want the people who care about you to watch you swing from a gallows? Do you want Hana or Fareeha to see that?” 

“No, that ain’t what I want at all,” Jesse says quietly. “I don’t want those good kids to see that side of me.” He frowns. “And I wish you hadn’t seen it either.”

“I am not some delicate flower who will wilt at the first breeze, Jesse McCree. You have obviously moved on from whatever past life you have led, and I have no place judging that life when I myself have done and said many things I regret.” Hanzo eases up on Jesse and steps back. “You said you would listen to what I had to say regarding why Genji and I left. You gave me your word and promised that you wouldn’t let the men who threaten my brother and I do anything to hurt us.” Hanzo digs his fingers into Jesse’s white shirt. “Well, I make the same vows to you. I brought you this poster to tell you myself, Jesse McCree, that I will not let anyone harm you.” 

Jesse stands there for a few moments with his jaw slacked, staring down at Hanzo in complete shock. The cowboy swallows heavily, his adam’s apple bobbing. “Hanzo, darlin’, you…” He trails off and brings his hand up to caress Hanzo’s cheek. “I’ve been told my hearin’ ain’t too good, but I could’ve sworn you just said somethin’ awfully sweet to me.”

Like the day in the rain, emotions bubble up to the surface like water simmering in a pot. Hanzo hesitates, suddenly feeling rather flustered from not only anger but the unspoken feelings he has tried denying over and over about the foolish cowboy. 

“If anyone ever dared tie a noose around your neck then I would deserve the same fate,” Hanzo says with conviction. “You helped ease my burden. Let me do the same.” 

“You do more than that my sakura sweetheart.”

Before Hanzo can so much as contest the claim that somehow he does more for him than he knows, Jesse steals his breath from his lungs with a kiss. A kiss so very different and yet so familiar to Hanzo when compared with the one shared in the rain. Desperation laces this kiss. A need to touch, to taste, to know. To exchange more than burdens and empathy, and to instead share hot breath. To release much of the tension that has been building between them. Passion mingles between them, burning like a wildfire racing through a forest and igniting everything it touches in its path. 

Jesse leans in at an angle, pressing harder, and his chapped lips slide between Hanzo’s without resistance. His arms pulls Hanzo flush against his body, holding him tight. Hanzo’s senses grow overwhelmed with sensation. Jesse tastes of whiskey, his rough hands roam up and down his forearms, over rolled up sleeves and the dragon tattoo, lingering. Jesse’s fingers stroke the raised bruises on Hanzo’s arm from the whip abrasions from several nights ago that continue to heal. 

Hanzo had never been kissed prior to their quiet, comforting experience at the shooting range. Hanzo felt safe, secure, and cared for during a moment of weakness and rare vulnerability. Now, this time, Hanzo knows Jesse McCree needs these same comforts and more, from the intensity behind this kiss. He hears whispered words amidst the breathy pauses in their contact, _Give me a chance--please give me a chance._

Hanzo gives himself over. He destroys the stone walls built so high around his heart this once; he lets Jesse in despite how afraid he is to do so. He gives him that chance. He surrenders himself to uncertainty. He wraps his arms around Jesse’s neck and tugs on his bottom lip with his teeth. Jesse rewards him in kind for his bravery with a groan of approval. 

The force behind the kiss causes Hanzo to step backward without realizing it until the backs of his knees make contact with the edge of Jesse’s bed. The kiss breaks abruptly. They both open their eyes to see the other red in the face, lips parted, and breathing heavier. 

“Guess I got a little carried away there, huh?” Jesse asks breathlessly as he toys with Hanzo’s yellow hair ribbon. “Though you can’t blame a man.” 

Hanzo smooths down unruly hairs atop Jesse’s head. He offers a small smile despite the pronounced blush on his cheeks. 

“Hmm. It seems you are capable of doing more with your mouth than just running it.”

Jesse smirks. “Oh, don’t tempt me, darlin’.” He bends Hanzo backward and leans forward, hovering his mouth over Hanzo’s adam’s apple. “I can do a lot more than run it.”

Jesse shows him in kind. Kisses sear down the delicate flesh of his exposed neck, and Hanzo restrains himself no longer. Emotion and pleasure translate themselves into sighs, little gasps, and moans as Jesse kisses up and down Hanzo’s neck. He pays thorough attention to Hanzo’s ear, drawing the lobe in between his teeth and nipping gently. Hanzo cranes his neck, completely consumed by newfound desire. 

Hanzo opens his eyes as Jesse’s mouth lingers on his temple. Jesse’s hands wander, stroking over clothes and muscles beneath. Hanzo catches a glimpse of the poster on the table and his heart sinks in his chest. They can’t ignore this problem any further, no matter how much they may be enjoying this moment.

“Explain to me what happened. What is the Deadlock Gang?”

Jesse stops his exploration and leans back to stare down at Hanzo. “Why do you want to know about them?”

Hanzo scoffs. “Because I was raised to know my _enemies_ as well as my allies if I intended to ever dream of defeating them.”

“You sure are a stubborn man. I get the feelin’ you won't let this go ‘til I give you a decent explanation.” He leans down and places a soft kiss on Hanzo’s forehead. “Guess I’ll have to show you my other skills another time then.”

Jesse leans back off the bed, giving Hanzo room to sit up. He makes his way to his dresser to fetch his lighter and a box of old cigars. “Been awhile since I rode with that outfit, but Deadlock was and always will be bad news.” He places one cigar between his teeth and looks back toward Hanzo, who stands and sits back down at the table.

Hanzo frowns at the sight of the cigar. Jesse rarely smoked during the three months he and his brother had been in town. Only twice. The first day they met and during their feud. He knows enough about the habit to know Jesse only smokes when he’s tense. 

“The expression about time and wounds ain’t exactly accurate.” Jesse joins him at the table once more. “I still carry the mistakes I made from my time with them.” To Hanzo, Jesse appears lost in his own memories. “The things I did under that name. Deadlock didn’t care much about those who got caught in the crossfire so long as they got their pay at the end of the day.”

Jesse flicks the lighter, igniting the end of his cigar and takes a long drag. “But I suppose I should start from the beginning. The worst day of my life… the day we received the telegram in the mail telling me and my family that my brother James died in the war and wasn’t coming home.” He sighs. “You never know how deep the rabbit hole goes until you’re free-falling down it...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the idea for _Young Bucks_ comes from [ captaincorgi.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainCorgi/pseuds/CaptainCorgi)


	16. The Past Never Lets You Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After revealing the wanted poster in Jesse McCree's name, Hanzo listens to the gunslinger's story, of how he found himself on the run from his past. It all started with a telegram.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence.

Jesse has never heard his mother nor his father cry before. Growing up, nothing ever shook his parents. They shook off financial woes, they persevered through drought one summer that devastated their harvest, and they steered the ship as war broke out in Europe and subsequent American involvement drafted their oldest son to fight. 

Jesse, on the other hand, has the softest heart of the family. The death of the family dog devastated Jesse as a boy, but his family had been there to fill the hole in his heart with an overabundance of love. James had been there to console him with a tight hug, a hand ruffling his hair, and a sunny smile that made him feel like everything would turn out okay. Jesse always wanted to grow up and be just like his brother James--kind, loving, compassionate, quick-witted, and dedicated. 

When James left for the war, Jesse promised himself that when James came back he would have grown into a man his brother would admire. As the war dragged on and his eighteenth birthday approached, Jesse hoped to enlist so he could fight alongside his brother and make him proud. The chance ultimately never comes.

With only a door separating him and his parents inside of the small cottage where he and his brother grew up, played and fought in, he presses his ear to the wood and listens to murmured words exchanged between his parents on the other side. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but it sends chills down his spine. A lump settles in his stomach. 

“We can’t tell him,” he hears his mother utter. 

If his father replies, Jesse doesn’t hear it. The screech of a chair in his parent’s bedroom causes Jesse to move away from the door and return to his seat at the kitchen table. He fidgets impatiently until the door opens and his father walks out. His eyes meet Jesse’s with a blank expression on his face. He walks out the kitchen through the back door and sits down on the porch. His mother comes out next, her puffy brown eyes dried, but the sleeve of her red dress appears stained.

“What’s wrong, ma?” 

She dodges his question entirely. She runs a hand over her long dark hair and sighs. “Make sure you go out back and milk Bessie tonight.” She walks past the table and goes to the kitchen counter. Like his father, his mother looks drained, her voice hollow, lacking her usual pep and energy, but somehow she has the energy to begin chopping vegetables for their dinner while staring out the window that faces their barn. 

The sound of Jesse standing from the table does not disturb her. She doesn’t look over her shoulder to look at her son, she doesn’t speak or question or stop him as he goes into his parent’s bedroom in search of the telegram that has clearly shaken his parents. He tries his best to stave off the fear that it’s something bad about James. He finds it tucked underneath his mother’s pillow. He would have never guessed to look here if not for the sign of disturbed sheets of an otherwise made bed. He holds the telegram in his hands and his eyes flash over the words. His heart stops in his chest. He knows the contents of this telegram before he’s made it past the address to his parents. 

_WA WASHINGTON DC 5 32 PM AUGUST 12 1918_

_MR. & MRS. JAMES MCCREE_

_THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR SON CORPORAL JAMES MCCREE JR. HAS BEEN REPORTED KILLED IN ACTION ON TWENTY-THREE JULY IN FRANCE._

_HARRIS, THE ADJUTANT GENERAL_

With two short, cold sentences, Jesse’s entire world caves in. He reads the words on the telegram over and over until his eyes cross and the world moves out of focus. He doesn’t realize he’s hyperventilating until his head lolls forward, limp, and he has to catch himself. His hands hold the telegram in a death grip, shaking, and he wants to vomit and scream but nothing comes out. 

_Reported killed._

He stands abruptly from the bedside and runs a hand through his hair, trembling from anger and shock. 

_We can’t tell him. We can’t tell him. We can’t tell him_ \--over and over the words he overheard from his mother’s lips play like a broken gramophone in his head. How could they even think they could keep this from him? How could they? How _dare_ they? Didn’t they know how much he cared about James? Didn’t they know what James meant to him? Were they planning on lying to Jesse until war’s end--if it ever ended at all? Did they expect for life to continue as normal without him knowing the wiser? 

He feels sick with heartache. Jesse closes his eyes and thinks of the last day he saw his brother. James filled his uniform well, and he looked handsome, with his mother’s black hair, his father’s blue eyes, his bronze skin like the color of clay. He stood proud, eager to fulfill his service to his country. He carried himself with honor and dignity. Jesse watched him board the train from Santa Fe in awe. 

Deep in his heart, Jesse knows he should have hugged his brother tighter that day. He should have written more letters to James, even if he never received them. He’ll never hear his brother’s voice again. He’ll never be able to hear his brother laugh hard from one of his corny one-liners. He’ll never be able to see his brother’s smile again. He always thought they’d grow old together, live near each other, with family always central to their hearts and minds. Instead, all he’ll have is his brother’s ghost following him around and a candle to light at an altar.

Jesse shoves the telegram into his plaid shirt’s pocket and leaves the bedroom in a storm. He finds his mother still standing at the counter, still chopping tomatoes. He stands frozen, clenching his fists. He opens his mouth to speak, but he realizes he has nothing to say. He swallows the rock in his throat and bites into his cheek, letting the pain stifle the sob and accusations he wants to shout. War rages in his heart. He wants her to know his confusion, he wants her to see the look on his face, the raw betrayal, but he also wants to run into her arms and cling to her skirts like he did when he was just a boy. His gaze bores into her braided black hair pulled over her shoulder, daring her to turn and face him. She doesn’t. 

Suddenly Jesse no longer feels welcome in his own childhood home. Of course his mother wouldn’t turn and look at him. Of course she couldn’t meet his gaze. Of course his father couldn’t. He’s not _James_. He’s just an imposter. He’s not the son they want, he’s not the son they need right now. He doesn’t want to be their son anymore, either. He’ll never be able to replace James. No one could. 

He turns away unable to bear the sight of his mother's back any longer. He moves quickly to his and James’s room and slams the door shut. His heart feels heavy in his chest as he stares blankly across the room to James’s empty bed. He could recall every detail of his brother sitting on the red quilted bedspread. The way his blue eyes would shine a bit with an unshed tear when Jesse made him laugh hard, the sound of James playing his guitar to sooth away Jesse’s youthful restlessness, and the unshakable faith that James put into him, always telling Jesse he would grow into a fine man one day. Most importantly, James had always been proud of Jesse being his younger brother.

All things that Jesse would never see or hear again.

His eyes catch sight of the mahogany guitar leaning against the corner wall next to James’s bed. It looks lonely without it’s owner there to play the taut strings. Anger courses through him. Why did James have to go fight in a stupid war on the other side of the world? Why did he have to die for it? Why couldn’t it have been some other bastard? Why couldn’t it have been him instead?

Jesse crosses the room and picks up the guitar and raises it over his head. He holds it tightly as his teeth gnash together. He wants to shatter the instrument across the cold floor just like his heart had been from a short telegram. He wants to watch it come apart piece by piece until the stinging anguish and emptiness of everything that James’s death left in him is no more. Until he is no more.

As his arm comes down, his fingernail catches a string that echoes loudly in the dark lonely room. The note his ears still recognize--the first note of a song James once played for him. His memory betrays him as it replays the image of his brother lounging before him with his soft smile, warm as a summer day, and Jesse feels his heart break once more. His knees give out and he sinks to the wooden floor, the guitar forgotten. He shoves his fist in his mouth to silence his sobs, but the misery keeps building as tears fall down his face for the first time since reading the telegram.

His brother is gone and nothing will ever make this pain go away. The absence of James McCree will always be felt.

x X x

“That was the last night I spent in that room.” Jesse takes a long inhale of his cigar, “Call me a coward, but I just couldn’t bear the sight. I gathered a bag of the few possessions I had and couldn’t live without. I took James’s guitar, his hat, the telegram, and a box of his cigars he was saving ‘til after the war. Figured he wasn’t gonna need them. Stuffed the family photograph into my shirt’s pocket, strapped on my old man’s gun belt that had been in my family before my grandfather’s time, and left that home for good on the back of my old mare.” Jesse places the cigar between his teeth, gets up from the table, and walks over to Hanzo to hand him the folded and faded telegram he took from his safe earlier when he had been talking. “Haven’t been home since.”

Hanzo takes the telegram and reads the contents to himself. The words are just as Jesse described: cold, empty, clinical. Bureaucratic apathy. No doubt a secretary typed this message, not even the general himself. His heart pangs with empathy. He can’t imagine what he would have been like had he received a message like this informing him of Genji’s death in a far off place. He can’t blame Jesse for wanting to leave his family home. He knows living in Hanamura and Twenty Nine Palms without Genji would be unbearable. He doesn’t like thinking about a world without his brother. 

“I tried to enlist, myself, after James had originally left in 1917.” He sighs. “The damn recruiter was from town and he knew I wasn’t old enough for enlistment. If I had just been a few years older, maybe I could’ve been over there with James and maybe he wouldn’t have died.” 

Hanzo frowns. “Perhaps, but there are no guarantees in life. Maybe you would have died along with him.” 

Jesse shrugs. “Might have been better for some people.”

“Not for me,” Hanzo growls. “There is nothing you can do for the dead other than continue living on.”

Jesse huffs and his gaze bores into the polished wood of his table, brooding. 

“‘We are, you and me / Like two pine needles / Which will dry and fall / But never separate.’ I always recall that poem when I think of my mother and father,” Hanzo says softly after raising his head to meet Jesse’s brown eyes. “I’m sorry, Jesse. I wish this hadn’t of happened to you, but know that your brother will always be with you. James was a part of your life, you were a part of his, and now, you can continue to carry his memory with you. His memory will never part from you so long as you keep it alive.” 

“I appreciate it Hanzo,” he says with a sad smile. “I’ve been carryin’ around my brother’s things since the day I left, but I ain’t always honored his memory. The pain that burrows into your very bones can make you forget the difference between right’n’wrong. Part of me wanted to believe that time would make it easier to carry that pain, maybe those wounds would heal, but it sure as hell didn’t get any easier the next day or the day after that…”

x X x

_Albuquerque, New Mexico, December 31, 1918_

Jesse McCree wishes the whiskey in his glass would never run dry. There isn’t enough booze in the world he could drink to drown himself in. Even after nursing several glasses already, tonight, he’s still too sober, he’s still thinking too clearly. He wants the sound of music and merriment celebrating the holiday and the end of the war to fade away. It’s too loud. Ringing in his ears. The buzz of a bee. He stares down into the amber colored drink and wonders why the fuck he wandered into a bar tonight of all nights. 

He fishes into his weathered shirt and pulls out the telegram. He lays it flat beside his glass and toys with the edge of the paper. 

_THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET…_

What did a tenderfoot a thousand miles away from the war and from the family of soldiers fucking know about regret. His brother had probably been only a name on a page. A list. Meat for the grinder. Cannon fodder. Carrion dinner.

_THAT YOUR SON CORPORAL JAMES MCCREE JR. HAS BEEN REPORTED KILLED IN ACTION ON TWENTY-THREE JULY IN FRANCE._

Almost half a year. James has been dead for half a year. To die in France. Jesse had hardly seen a map of the place. Why did James have to go to some forsaken place to die? Plenty of ways to die on his own country’s soil. Jesse’s been trying to keep his eyes out to find them. James should have died as an old man, happy after years of hard work with his family all around him. Not in one of those goddamn trenches he’s heard about. James died from toxic air, or so he learned from one of James’s old friends who had served with him in the war--Terry Buchanan, who lived down the dusty road from their ranch. Terry hadn’t been there to help James make it out of the war; instead, a few months before the battle at the Marne, Terry was hospitalized for severe trench foot. It ultimately saved his life. 

When he crossed paths with Terry on the way to Albuquerque, the fact that Terry was alive and James wasn’t… it didn’t seem fair to Jesse. He almost punched the man’s teeth in. Where the fuck did Terry Buchanan get off feeling sorry for Jesse over James? Terry missed the combat at the Marne because he had been lying without a care in the world, in the safety of an army hospital miles from the front nursing gangrene on his feet. He was drunk and belligerent as the Devil himself, and he had shoved Terry back and told him, _I wish you’d’ve died in James’s place._

Jesse felt like shit the moment he finished his confession. Terry Buchanan was an old friend from when they were boys. He cared a lot about James. Enough to fancy him, Jesse knew, because he had told him countless times when they were teenagers. Jesse knew James well, but he didn’t know if his brother cared for Terry the way he did. Terry was clearly distressed over the entire conversation, distraught too over James’s death from mustard gas he called it. Jesse couldn’t even muster up a lie to ease the heartbreak in an old friend’s heart. All he could do was mutter an apology and shove past him. 

Jesse sighs. The heartaches keep piling. Despite how many bullets he’s taken to the heart none of them have finished him off. He couldn’t wait for the day he found the right anodyne to make the hurt go away. Until then, whiskey would have to do. 

“Another.”

“Nah, kid. You’re done,” the bartender grouses. “You’ve had enough. You’ll be startin’ off the New Year with a bad enough of a headache tomorrow morning.”

Jesse scowls. “Why’s it matter? I can pay.” He digs into his pocket for his wallet and opens it up. He’s fresh out of bills. He searches around desperately. When he gives up, he looks back at the old bartender and slouches forward. “Listen. I can pay you. Just not now. Tomorrow. Please.”

“Sorry kid, this isn’t a charity.”

“Fuck you.” 

Jesse slides off the barstool and snatches the telegram off of the counter. He shoves his wallet back into his pocket but holds the telegram in his hand like a crucifix. He staggers away with heavy feet but doesn’t make it far; he crashes into a bigger, bulkier man in his stupor. 

“Hey, pal, why don’t you watch where the fuck you’re going.” 

Strong palms push him backward into another man behind him. In the scuffle, he loses track of the telegram. 

“Oh boy do you stink like shit,” the man behind him groans. “You bathe in your own piss? Do you even bathe at all, laddie?”

Jesse opens his eyes. His vision blurs, watery until everything slowly comes into focus. The man he walked into has short blonde hair and scars on his face. He watches as the man kneels down and picks up the discarded telegram laying at Jesse’s feet. 

Jesse growls. “Don’t you fucking touch that.” He stands on his own two feet but sways back and forth. “That ain’t yours.” He feels a hand on his shoulder. He looks over it to see another man with bright red hair touching him. 

“Oh? And why not?” The man flips the telegram over and sees the text. “Mr. and Mrs. James McCree, the secretary of war desires me to express his deep regret--” 

Jesse snarls as he lunges at the blonde man, knocking him to the ground. They wrestle together on the dusty saloon floor for a moment before Jesse feels himself hauled up and thrown back into the bar.

He shakes his head to clear his vision as he leans against the bar for extra support. Before him stands the red haired man along with the blonde he walked into, who must have thrown him back. He searches the blonde man’s hands to find it void of the telegram. 

Jesse panics before finding it crumpled at his feet. He bends down quickly to pick it up and shoves it back into his shirt pocket to protect it. 

“You got some nerve you piece of shit,” growls the blonde, who now sports blood on the corner of his mouth. “I’ve fucking killed men for less.” He wipes his face with the back of his hand, “Though considering how much you’re pissing and moaning over some bastard who probably died of dysentery, it all goes to show you pigs shit in the same sty.”

All eyes turn to the group engaged in a fight. The music in the saloon ends. No one speaks a word. Even the bartender watches, transfixed. Moments ago the mood in the saloon was merry as most patrons celebrated the holiday.

Jesse chuckles, his laughter sinister, and he smirks up at the two men. He gestures with his left hand absently as his right reaches for a nearby glass of whiskey on a table. He swings his right hand across the blonde’s face, shattering the glass and spraying whiskey everywhere as the other man screams.

Jesse plants a low kick in the blonde man's crotch before tackling the redhead into a table. They slide across the table, kicking up poker chips and glasses of alcohol over them. Jesse recovers first, and he pins the redheaded man’s arm down with his larger body then throws punch after punch into the man’s face.

Red is all Jesse sees as the adrenaline shoots through his system better than any whiskey ever could as he rains blow after blow into the swollen face. Blood starts to splatter over his grey shirt until the redhead below him goes limp.

He takes a deep breath and stands up turning his attention back to the blonde whose pistol points at him. “I’ll fucking kill--”

There is no hesitation in Jesse’s draw. His right hand touches iron and nothing matters. There is no doubt if he’s slow or not, if he hits his mark or not. He’s got six shots--same as the other guy. But while the other man will need all of his to put Jesse in the ground, Jesse only needs one.

His gun thunders in his palm as the blonde clutches at his chest while his white shirt turns red. The other man staggers and falls backwards onto the saloon floor staring blankly at Jesse as the gun falls from his own grip.

“Death ain’t much for chit chat, amigo,” Jesse remarks coldly as he flicks his gun back into his holster, “And I ain’t much for it either.”

Jesse goes back to the coat rack at the back of the saloon to grab his serape and hat before stepping back out onto the street. He’s nearing the stables before his adrenaline starts to subside and his body starts to shake.

He killed a man. Good God, he’d killed a man. 

But that’s not the only thing on Jesse’s mind. What he finds most disturbing is how easy it had been to take a life. For a split second he was able to forget the gaping, painful wound in his chest. All that had remained during the fight was one thought: kill or be killed.

x X x

“First time I’d ever killed a man before. Ain’t much proud of it lookin’ back but it was mostly… in self defense. Least I like to think it was mostly self-defense.”

Jesse grinds the stub of his cigar out in his ashtray and moves towards his couch, throwing himself down on it. He runs a hand over his face and then covers his mouth, as if he’s trying to put the feelings into the proper words. 

“I learned a lot about myself that day. Turns out all the good that James told me he saw was just a lie after all. No good boy kills a man and thinks about how good it made him feel.” He sighs and places an arm over his face. “Worst thing about it was the more I did it--killin’--the easier it got. Aren't you glad you asked me about my past now sweetheart?”

Hanzo slides off the side of Jesse’s bed and crosses the room to join him on the couch. He sits down near Jesse’s head. 

“Come here.” 

Jesse tilts his head back and meets Hanzo’s eyes. He sits upright and swallows hard. When Jesse hesitates, Hanzo pats his pant-leg and offers him a small smile. 

“Trust me.” 

This time, Jesse scoots back and lays his head in Hanzo’s lap. He lets out a deep groan, turns his head, and buries it into Hanzo’s stomach. Hanzo’s fingers begin to run through his brown hair, stroking his head gently. 

“Whenever my father was particularly stressed from his work, my mother used to do this for him to help him relax after a long day.” 

“Did it help him at all?”

“I believe it did. I admired their relationship deeply. They looked after each other and I believe they cared for one another. They worked well together. Whenever she was tired or feeling unwell he would brush her long hair.” 

Jesse nods. He closes his eyes and the rhythmic movement through his hair helps him breathe easier. 

“I know what it’s like to take a life and wonder about the consequences upon the spirit.”

Jesse opens his eyes again. He reaches up to caress Hanzo’s cheek, and Hanzo leans his cheek into the warm palm. 

“What happened?” 

“My family was once quite powerful in Japan. When our father died I took over as leader of the clan. While conducting business with another family, Genji and I were tricked. We were captured and imprisoned for a short time. Their clan’s leader threatened to hurt Genji. He explained he had plans to dismember my brother and send the parts back to the Shimada Clan one by one to send a message if I did not agree to transferring assets to his family. I refused. I broke free of my bonds and I made the man eat his words by having him choke on his own severed tongue.” 

“ _God damn._ ”

Hanzo shrugs nonchalantly, but he curtly adds, “No one threatens my brother, Jesse.” 

“No, no, you misunderstand, Hanzo. I get it. Completely.” Jesse traces Hanzo’s sharp jawline, and his nail grazes the skin carefully. “It’s been years since James died, but I wouldn’t let anyone slander my brother, either. I know exactly how you felt in that moment.” 

Jesse takes Hanzo’s hand and kisses the back of it. Hanzo lets out a deep breath and recollects himself.

“When did you join this Deadlock Gang?” 

“About a month into the new year, 1919. I was out of cash, so I started stealing. Looking back, I feel terrible. I mean the poster’s right. I am a thief. I did commit many crimes. I stole from people who probably needed the money as much as I did. I didn’t do some Robin Hood sort of thing where I stole from the rich. When you’re desperate and don’t give a damn you sort of forget right’n’wrong. You take whatever you can get.” Jesse sighs. “I regret it so much. I wish I could take it back. I’ve tried to give back some of the money I stole anonymously to those whose names I remember but it doesn’t help ease the hardships I may have caused back then. I can’t go back in time.” 

“It’s still good to try.” 

“I know.” Jesse sighs and relaxes back into Hanzo’s lap. “I might spend the rest of my life makin’ amends for that time or die tryin’.” He closes his eyes. “I joined Deadlock after I met a guy named Virgil Jackson in the city. I tried stealing from him, but he caught me. He must’ve seen something in me, because he offered me a job. At the time I just thought he was a normal man leading any old gang. I took a shining to him and for a time he seemed to fill the hole that James had left behind. 

“Looking back, I wish I had listened a little more in Sunday School. Maybe I would’ve learned that the Devil himself can take the form of man or beast, and like the serpent in Eden, he could sweet-talk a nun and get her to fork over the donation box and thank him for it. But once he turned you to his side, he was cold as ice and he ran that gang as if it were his own personal military regiment. He wanted to make the desert his kingdom and use the Jornado del Muerto as his own personal hell. I watched a man beg for his life out in that desert for stealing from Virgil. Virgil gave him half a canteen of water and a gun with only one bullet in the chamber. We left him out there. Hell if I know if he lived or died out there. No one crossed Virgil Jackson and lived to tell the tale.”

x X x

“Where are we headed Virgil?” Jesse asks as he rides behind the older man. He’s rode with Virgil for over a month passing between city after city, only this time Virgil had taken a different trail, one that Jesse didn’t recognize.

Virgil turns in his saddle to look at Jesse with a small grin, “I figured it was ‘bout time you met the rest of the boys’n’girls. You’ve proven yourself to me Jesse. You have what it takes to be Deadlock.”

Jesse nodded and urged his horse forward. Deadlock. A gang. A place where he'd have food and company. More importantly, he’d have somewhere to belong. 

After they round an outcropping of rocks, Virgil gives a loud piercing whistle. Suddenly two people flank them and Jesse’s hand drops to his gun. “Relax Jesse.” It's more a command than a reassurance as Jesse moves his hand away from his pistol. “We’re here.”

“Fresh meat, eh boss?” Asks a brown haired man with an ashen complexion who has a scar running along his jaw, down to his chin. 

“Didn’t know we were taking kids off the street now,” says the woman on his left, who eyes Jesse in a way that makes his skin crawl. Her brown hair falls over her shoulder in a long braid, and a wide-brimmed hat rests atop her head. Her chestnut skin bears a sheen of sweat from working all day.

“This is Jesse McCree. He’s one of us now and he isn’t a child.” Virgil's words make Jesse’s chest puff with pride, “Jesse, this is Franco Delaney and Indiana Wiley.”

“But we call her Indy.”

“Shut your face before I shut it for you,” Wiley barks at Delaney and then turns her glare back to Jesse, “You’ll call me Wiley if you know what's good for you.”

Jesse tips his hat towards the two and mutters, “Pleasure to meet you both.”

“Damn Virgil, he’s got proper manners?” Franco asks with a grin. “Where’d you pick this one up?”

“Enough about that, where I found Jesse does not concern you,” Virgil says in the tone Jesse has learned means the end of any conversation. “Get back to your posts and make sure we weren’t followed.”

Jesse spares one more look over his shoulder as the two disappear into the low-lying brush beside the makeshift trail. It almost feels like a scene out of one of the books his brother James used to read to him. A real robber’s roost. 

The thought of James causes his chest to clench in pain. The wound is still fresh and to Jesse it feels like it always will be.

As the two ride deeper into camp, Jesse can’t help but stare wide eyed at all the bustle around him. There are more than thirty odd men and women moving about the camp--no, to Jesse it looks more like a small town. This is Deadlock? Jesse didn’t imagine it would have so many members.

“And more comin’ in,” Virgil says, as if he read his mind. “But we only take in the very best, Jesse. I don’t ride with just anyone.”

He feels it again. The pride of knowing someone has faith in him. He has been deemed welcome by the leader of this gang that defines itself by its infamy as well as its exclusiveness. He surveys the expanse of the hideaway nestled in the hills, and he sees how orderly the other members work. This is the empire Virgil told him about. The kingdom he commands by himself. It’s unlike anything Jesse’s ever seen before. 

They stop before one circular area of cabins, where some gang members sit around a campfire, drinking and laughing together. Jesse slides off the horse first and then Virgil follows, and he ties the horse to a post. 

“Let me show you where you’ll hole up. Dinner’s at six, sharp. Jenny Jones handles the cooking, and she’s a big meat eater so tell her how you like your steaks cooked and she’ll handle it for you. You’ll be bunking with some of our other latest recruits from around New Mexico. Our quartermasters take up shop down the hill, Cassidy and Cody Clementine. Just mind the hat on the door, sometimes. Else you’ll walk in on them fuckin’. They’ll set you up if you end up needing a new gun at any point, or if you want some adjustments made to what you’ve already got. They take commissions, too, if you want to fork over some of your pay to them for something special. They hand-made my gun and I couldn’t be happier with the results.” 

Virgil removes the saddlebags from his horse and offers Jesse his things. 

“Tomorrow’s the start of the next chapter in your life, Jesse McCree. I hope you’re ready to tell it. We ride out at dawn, sharp.” 

Virgil leaves after untying his horse and heads further up the hillside to his cabin that overlooks the canyon down below. 

Jesse now stands alone, by himself on the road. He slings his knapsack over his shoulder and adjusts the strap of the guitar across his chest. He trudges forward to the cabin assigned to him, passing by the campfire and earning stares from those in the circle. He pushes open the door and finds no one else inside. 

_Guess it’s too early to turn in._

He drops his things onto the wooden floor, then cracks his neck and stretches after the long ride from the city out into the desert. He runs a hand over his face, stifles a yawn, and fidgets anxiously. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough. He’s ready to ride out at dawn and raise hell. The withdrawal of adrenaline makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. The cabin’s too small to pace in. His fingers drum against his hip. He doesn’t want the emptiness he feels to return when his hands grow idle. Would it ever get easier, dealing with the loneliness he feels every time he’s by himself? 

Before Jesse can begin to contemplate and brood long on the answer, the cabin door opens. He turns and sees a tall, thin man with slicked back blonde hair and skin so pale Jesse wonders if this kid has ever been out in the sun. He wears a black bowler hat atop his head. He has grey eyes, no facial hair, and a charming smile. The other man appears surprised to see Jesse inside, and he sports a faint blush on his cheeks. He clears his throat and then offers his hand. 

“Hey there. Richard Westbrook--but you can call me Dick.” He winks. “You must be new here.” 

“Uh. Yeah.” Jesse scratches the back of his neck and takes the hand with his free one. “I reckon I am. Jesse McCree.” 

“Me and the others were wondering when someone would take the extra bunk we have left in this cabin. Virgil doesn’t like to leave any bed empty.” Dick smirks. “Glad to see it’s being filled with someone who appears like he’s strong and capable of carrying his weight around here just fine.” 

Jesse blushes and drops his hand. “I ain’t gonna be beholden to nobody. I’ll work hard as any man.”

“I bet you will, cowboy,” Richard purrs. 

“I can take the top bunk if you’d like. Sometimes I snore. Wouldn’t want to wake anyone up.” 

“That’s fine with me.” Richard laughs, and when he smiles, he shows off his pearly white teeth. “I prefer being on the bottom, anyways, myself.” 

Jesse shrugs, “Alright. Reckon it works out fine then.” He moves his bags to his new bunk but not before he notices the way Richard’s gaze lingers on his back.

x X x

Hanzo huffs. He doesn’t realize he’s clenching the hand on Jesse’s chest until one of Jesse’s hands enclose around his. He looks down at Jesse and meets his brown eyes.

“Why did you stop?” 

“You’re clearly upset.” 

“I am no such thing,” Hanzo remarks with a scoff.

“That so? You’ve grown stiff as a plank of wood underneath my head. You’re practically holding my shirt in your clenched fist. Did you want to stop here?” 

“No, of course not. You have only just begun to tell this story.” Hanzo closes his eyes and shakes his head. He rubs the bridge of his nose and shrugs. “I simply have a bad feeling about this Richard Westbrook.” 

“Yeah,” Jesse mumbles. “You’re right about that. Took me a little while to see it but I should’ve stayed clear of him.” 

Hanzo purses his brows and releases the tension in his fist. He frowns and brushes loose strands of brown hair out of Jesse’s eyes.

“What did he do to you?” 

Jesse sits up and turns toward Hanzo. As Hanzo frowns at him and opens his mouth to speak, Jesse stops him with a warm hand against his cheek. The softness of Hanzo’s skin against his palm, the way a faint blush spreads across his pale cheeks, the sound of the sharp intake of breath at the intimate brush of skin on skin. Hanzo wonders, in Jesse’s momentary silence, if Jesse and this Richard were once more than members of the same gang. He wonders, ruefully, if perhaps Jesse is still hurt over what may have happened years ago, but then, Jesse smiles, and all doubts vanish. Jesse looks into his eyes and the warmth radiating from there welcomes him like a hearth.

“Nothin’ you haven’t mended, darlin’.”

It’s perhaps the most cryptic answer Hanzo has ever heard Jesse give, but it’s an answer nonetheless. It still reveals truths about Jesse he did not know before. Hanzo leans his cheek into Jesse’s calloused palm and sighs. His chest tightens. The thought of helping Jesse McCree heal after suffering through so much grief, loneliness, despair… takes him aback. The cowboy always seemed so cheerful. So happy. So full of a joy for life that he shared with Hanzo, who hadn’t felt such a sense of place or belonging in years. 

“If it’s anything like what you have done for me, then I am grateful to have helped in some way,” he says softly. 

Hanzo places his hand on Jesse’s shoulder and squeezes it through the cloth of his plaid shirt. He studies Jesse’s face and spies the hesitation, the tension in his shoulders, the stark uncertainty in his eyes. He looks afraid. What did Jesse have to be afraid of with him there to look out for him? 

He knows enough about relationships to make an educated guess that perhaps this Richard Westbrook hurt Jesse in some way. He didn’t like the man the moment Jesse began to describe him. He could hear it in the way Jesse spoke that he didn’t like retelling these memories either. He knows little about the type of relationship this Richard and Jesse could have had, but spite still churns in his gut. He can’t believe how easily jealousy overtakes his heart in a vicegrip. 

Hanzo grabs Jesse by the collar of his shirt and pulls him close for a deep kiss. He knows little in the art of kissing, but he’s thankful he didn’t miss. His face burns. He swallows down his own inhibition and takes what he wants. He follows the technique Jesse used during their earlier proclamations of loyalty and trust against the edge of the bed. He threads his hand into Jesse’s thick brown hair and takes Jesse’s lower lip between his teeth, earning him a soft gasp. Jesse presses back in earnest, his nose grazing against Hanzo’s. 

When they pull apart, their warm breath mingles together. Hanzo raises a hand to cup Jesse’s chin, his thumb brushing through the bushel of his scruffy beard. He looks up into Jesse’s half-lidded eyes and the jealousy he felt towards a distant man in his cowboy’s past dissipates. He swallows hard. 

Jesse’s arms snake around Hanzo, and he drags his hand along Hanzo’s back, over the wrinkles of his white dress shirt. He smirks down at Hanzo. 

With deft movements, Jesse pushes Hanzo onto his back and presses him down against the red cushion of the couch. They kiss again, Jesse parting Hanzo’s lips with the tip of his tongue coaxing permission. Jesse’s hand slides down the front of Hanzo’s shirt, exploring him, and Hanzo’s heart races in his chest. The palm stroking him through thin fabric feels as if it’s on fire, singing his clothes, turning him to ash. Jesse’s palm flattens the cloth over his heart and his thumb brushes around the stiffness of his nipple. He moans into Jesse’s mouth, hips bucking upward unconsciously, and he feels something hard between Jesse’s legs. Hanzo’s cheeks flush, prickling with sensation. 

Jesse pulls back and searches Hanzo’s flustered face: a pouty, swollen lip, wide eyes, breathing deeper, and dislodged hair framing his cheek. He looks down. Hanzo’s shirt has become displaced, wrinkled, and untucked from his trousers. Jesse bends down and kisses the curve of Hanzo's neck. He chuckles against the sensitive skin, sending a tremor running through Hanzo from the vibration of the laughter and scratch of Jesse’s beard. 

“Darlin’, you have no idea how badly I want you. I’d treat you so well, I’d take care of you’n’only you. I’d make you sing for me.” 

The words form on Hanzo’s tongue, _Then do it,_ but he doesn’t have the courage to confess. Instead, all he can do is brace himself against Jesse as he tries to wrangle his racing heart rate back to normal.

“The truth is though, I want this to be special. Different,” Jesse whispers the words against Hanzo’s ear. “You mean so much to me, Hanzo. I don’t want to take this too fast.” 

Hanzo blushes again as Jesse’s weight shifts off of him as he sits back on his calves. His eyes wander down the form of Jesse McCree, and they stop at the pronounced tent in his trousers. He blinks in shock and swallows hard. Perhaps it is best to slow down again. He knows little about this dance; his brother was right, even if he hates to admit it. 

“I… I understand Jesse, and I appreciate it,” he mumbles. He sits up and scratches the back of his neck. He looks away from Jesse, embarrassed, and admits, “I’ve never…” 

“I know, Hanzo. That’s why I stopped myself. I want you to enjoy this at your pace.” 

Jesse cups Hanzo’s chin and turns him so that they face one another once more. He places a kiss against the corner of Hanzo’s mouth.

“Take it slow. Take new discoveries a little at a time,” he purrs. “There ain’t no rush. We got plenty of time.” 

Jesse sits up and pulls Hanzo with him. They resettle on the couch sitting side by side, shoulders touching. Jesse stretches and wraps an arm around Hanzo, holding him close. 

“You know when I was with the Deadlock, I would’ve called someone crazy if they told me I’d someday be in a room I actually owned, sitting with somebody I cared about.” He chuckles. “Few years ago I’d have thought my future would lead to nothin’ but me swingin’ from a noose or me endin’ up in a wooden box six feet under.”

Hanzo stiffens. He thinks back to the moment he first saw the wanted poster in the Redlands train station beside those of hardened, infamous criminals. Perhaps they deserved a justifiable end, but not Jesse McCree. Jesse has remorse for his actions. He knows what he did was wrong, and he has tried to make up for his actions, sought atonement, and has done what he can to start over. 

“How did you go from being with Deadlock to coming to California?

“As you can imagine, I realized pretty early on that goin’ along with the Deadlock Gang wasn’t what I first chalked it up to be. I rode beside Virgil and the rest of the gang and watched them do terrible things to innocent people. I didn’t bat an eyelash because speakin’ up against Virgil meant dying alone in the desert. I stole before, sure, but not how like they did. I stole to survive, to get somethin’ to eat and drink. Deadlock stole for the sake of stealin’ and to make a name for themselves. They took protection money; if they saw something they wanted, someone they wanted, they took it. They didn’t care. If someone got in their way, they shot them down.” He sighs, “I shot them down. I killed more men by the time I turned twenty-one than most men have in their entire lives. I even scared some of the other Deadlock members with my uncanny aim. I knew I was fast and untouched in any duel I partook in, against friend or foe. People seemed to like me. I was friends with the Clementines, Jenny the cook had a crush on me, even Franco and Indiana took a shining to me once I started proving myself. 

“Around that time I started hearing talk of my speed on the draw being about even with Virgil’s. People started talking about me like they talked about our leader, Virgil. With respect. They started looking to me instead of looking to him. I mean, I was the young up’n’comin’ gunslinger. That’s when I knew my days were numbered. No one challenged Virgil, and my being alive, my skill with a gun that had once earned me a place at his side, slipped me right into his line of fire.”

“He feared you would try to take over the gang? Were those fears warranted? Did you have those ambitions?”

“Hell no. I was, well,” Jesse scratches the back of his neck with his right hand, “I wasn’t exactly focused fully on the gang at the time I started havin’ doubts. Some days I liked Virgil. Other days I felt like I had a target on my back. Maybe early on it felt like some kind of fucked up family, but that changed, I guess. I just took up a space. I never wanted to be an outlaw, I certainly never wanted to take Virgil’s place. I started thinkin’ about settlin’ down somewhere. That maybe I could get away from that life.”

“Why does the wanted poster say you are the leader of Deadlock?”

“I don’t know.” Jesse scowls. “It’s troublin’ for sure. I’m not Hercule Poirot, Hanzo. Not lookin’ to become a detective.” 

Hanzo raises a brow in curiosity. “Don’t you mean Sherlock Holmes?”

Jesse shakes his head and winks. “No. Ask Reinhardt if you can borrow the book after you finish _Young Bucks._ Poirot’s a character by some fancy new British woman author. New on the market.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes. “Focus on the poster.”

“Alright, alright. The first poster I saw was when I was near the Arizona border. It just had me pegged as a gunslinger. This one you brought back though, it’s… much different. It can’t mean anything good that's for sure.”

“Is this a form of revenge because you left the gang?”

“Can’t say for sure, but I wouldn’t put it past ‘em. We didn’t exactly part on the best or terms…”

x X x

Jesse never enjoys drawing his gun on unarmed people. Especially when they’re innocent civilians. He always tries his best to point the barrel away just slightly, not that this gesture helps much to the train car full of passengers heading from one town to the next. He wears a bandana to cover up his identity, but he feels vulnerable, exposed. All eyes remain on him and his gun until Virgil speaks up.

“Now listen up, everyone. Loud and clear. My crew and I kindly ask that you hand over your valuables. My fellow associates here will process your possessions nice and easy.”

Fellow associates Jesse McCree, Cassidy Clementine, Franco Delaney. A dynamic duo during heists. The cowgirl from Colorado and the Italian from New York. 

“Resist and my friends will use deadly force without prejudice.” 

Cassidy holds out an open pillowcase. She begins to walk down the aisle of the train to collect belongings.

Jesse has a hard time watching this part. Some people sob. Some try to beg to not hand over their prized possessions. Necklaces, bills, coins, hard earned wedding rings. He grits his teeth. It ain’t right to him. 

“C’mon kid. Give me the money.”

Jesse turns his head to a younger boy who stands between his grandmother and Cassidy. The boy holds his ground, unafraid, and he looks from Cass to Jesse. The kid glares knives at him, and Jesse’s heart races in his chest. He can’t be older than nine. He doesn’t want this kid to die. 

_Items, things, it isn’t worth it, kiddo._

The boy takes too long, earning him a painful strike to the face from the butt of Virgil’s pistol. 

Jesse blinks in shock. One moment the kid stood fine on his own, the next he’s clutching at his bleeding face whimpering. All in the blink of an eye. He pushes between Franco and Cass and goes to Virgil’s side. He grabs him by the arm and jostles him back. 

It doesn’t sit right with Jesse. His stomach does flips. He can’t stand back and do nothing. 

“Virgil. This ain’t… Let’s just let him go. Kid can’t fight back. He’s already going to have a scar to remind him.” 

Virgil doesn’t respond immediately. His narrowed eyes fall to the hand gripping his forearm. He shrugs off Jesse and laughs. 

“Excuse me?”

“Virgil, you heard me. This ain’t right. It’s just a kid. Let the kid have his courage and his dignity.” 

Virgil half-turns, as if to walk away, but instead turns back and drives his fist into Jesse’s cheek. Jesse recoils and crashes into one of the train car’s booths. He leans against it, wiping the blood off of his lip, as Virgil towers over him.

“I find it interesting, Jesse, how on all of the heists you’ve partaken in over the years, this is the one you choose to protest. Why the sudden faintness of heart? Were the people we robbed before not worthy of this kind of courtesy?”

Jesse opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He scrambles for any excuse to explain himself. Yes, of course the people they robbed previously didn’t deserve to have their valuables taken from them. Of course they deserved the right to head from one town to the next without dealing with outlaw scum like them. It isn’t his first heist, not by a long shot. 

Virgil’s laughter stirs him from his own introspection. “Ah, yeah. That’s what I thought, Jesse.” He takes off his hat and runs a hand through his thick brown hair. “Franco, Cass. One bullet to the head, each. No witnesses.” Virgil says calmly. “Courtesy of Jesse McCree.” 

“No! Virgil, wait--Virgil, _please,_ ” Jesse stammers. He straightens his back and tries to stand still, without wobbling from the throbbing pain in his cheek and the vertigo. “We don’t need to do this. This is a robbery, not mass murder. Let’s keep it that way.” 

“Jesse’s right, boss.” 

_God bless Cassidy Clementine._

“I’m not a kid killer. You want that shit do it yourself.” 

Virgil looks from dissenter to dissenter. They’re on a fragile time schedule before this train pulls in at the Albuquerque train depot. He glances to Franco with a wry smirk.

“Et tu, Franco?” 

“Yeah. Boss.” Franco takes a deep breath. “Didn’t join up for mass murder.” 

“C’mon, Virgil.” 

Jesse wipes the blood off his lip with the back of his hand. He tries to get a grip on him racing thoughts and his fear response. Virgil stares him down like the predator at the top of the food chain looks upon those at the very bottom. Virgil doesn’t scowl. He doesn’t frown. He’s smiling. The mother-fucker is _smiling_ in amusement. 

“We’re on a schedule here,” Jesse says. “Time is money, right? We ain’t got time for this.” 

Virgil leaves the train car without a word. The lack of a response leaves Jesse winded, and even Franco and Cassidy look confused. Sure, Jesse was punched and publically scolded, but certainly they can’t be getting off the hook this easily. Virgil has killed men for less. 

They all turn and look at one another at the same time. They all know their days are numbered, now. It’s only a matter of time. Virgil has killed men for far less. Jesse knows that the only reason they’re still alive is because Virgil needs them to finish this job. 

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

Gunshots. 

They follow Virgil into the next train car, which is empty except for the bodies of two already subdued--no, _executed_ \--guards.

Jesse double takes. 

Guards? 

Jesse kneels down and swallows thickly. United States Army uniforms, a standard issue revolver to protect themselves with. Virgil caught them unawares, and they didn’t have a chance to fire in their own defense. Virgil made quick work of them silent as a mountain lion, and he shot them both in the back of the skull. 

Jesse’s blood runs cold. This isn’t an ordinary train robbery to steal some civilian passenger cargo. This is bigger than they could have ever imagined.

“V-Virgil, what the fuck kind of setup is this?” Cassidy asks, clearly shaken. “Cody and I didn’t sign up for this.”

“When you joined Deadlock, Cassidy Clementine, did you expect for this gang to be something as innocent and flippant as a band of misfits? Did you think of Deadlock as Robin Hood’s Merry Men? That we would steal from the rich and give to the poor? 

“You knew what you were agreeing to the moment you and your husband joined my gang. We all know you both liked the attention. The chance to craft weapons for me and my people. It stroked your egos. It filled you with a sense of purpose after I found you both in the gutter, high on opium and on the brink of death.” 

“Virgil, are you fucking suicidal?” Jesse shouts. “The army doesn’t just let anyone get away with stealing from them! You’re declaring war on the goddamn US government and dragging us along with you!” 

“Isn’t it time someone did?” Virgil asks with a sly grin. “What loyalty do you owe the country that let you all down?” 

Virgil walks towards one of the army guards and rolls the dead man’s body onto his back. He grinds his spurred boot into the still-warm flesh. 

“They took away your freedom, Franco Delaney, by accusing you and your family of spying for the Bolsheviks when you and your fellow workers threatened to unionize with other factory workers when conditions became intolerable.” Virgil scoffs. “All Socialists were traitors waiting to unleash a revolution in their eyes, no? What oath of honor do you owe the capitalists in Washington?” 

Virgil clasps his hands behind his back. “When you and your husband lost your home, Cassidy Clementine, during the economic crash at the turn of the century, where was the US government when you needed money to start over? They helped the wealthy banks and fat cats in the cities, didn’t they? Why couldn’t they help the poor, rural families so they could get back on their feet?”

Jesse places his hand on Cassidy’s shoulder to help steady her. 

“And then my second in command. A man I would almost consider a son, or perhaps, more affectionately, my younger brother. Why do you hold loyalty to a government that forced your brother to fight and die in a war we should have never engaged in? A war of _European_ aggression? Why do you care if a few crates of army supplies are stolen from them, _repurposed,_ rather, when they have no sympathy for you and your family? Why should you hold any respect or sense of pride to a country that could only muster two sentences of remorse for James’s death. They couldn’t even face you and your family in person. They sent you a telegram and hoped you would move on like good little soldiers on the home front. You owe them nothing, Jesse McCree.” 

The thought of his brother hurts Jesse for the first time in what feels like months. Being with Deadlock, doing the terrible things he has done, he hadn’t thought of the loss in his heart. He buried his brother so deep in a failed attempt to move on. He tried to forget how much he was letting the memory of his brother down. The ghost of James McCree rises from the grave in his heart, and if he squints, he can almost imagine his brother standing there beside Virgil, frowning, holding out his hand, mouthing words he can’t understand… 

_I’m sorry, Jesse._

Jesse blinks and the mirage disappears. He hasn’t believed in God or Heaven since he lost James years ago. He knows he’s going to Hell one way or another. 

Jesse draws his gun in the middle of the empty train car. He grips the gun he commissioned from none other than Cassidy and Cody Clementine. The silver of his barrel catches a flare of light peering through the window. 

“I tried being reasonable, Virgil. You don’t deserve it.” 

“Now, Jesse,” Virgil says smoothly, his voice dripping with honey as it draws out his name, “you aren’t thinking straight. You know I would never put you in harm's way.” He starts to walk forward, completely undeterred by the gun. His hard scowl softens into a warm smile with each step he takes. “We are family, Jesse. I know you’ve got a softer heart. I know you saw a little of yourself in that boy from the other car.” The spurs on Virgil’s boots clink loudly against the steel floor of the train car. “You’re right, I realize. I should have admired the boy for standing up for his family. It takes guts to stand up against someone and stand your ground.” He pulls his black hat off of his head and chuckles. “I’m so proud of you, Jesse.” 

“You wanted to kill innocent people, Virgil. Getting back at the army is one thing. Stealing another. Killing civilians is wrong.” 

“I know, Jesse. I’m sorry.” Virgil stops before Jesse and puts a hand on the barrel, unflinching, as he tugs it forward gently. It’s as if he’s daring Jesse to shoot. “Perhaps I do deserve a bullet.” 

Jesse’s throat feels dry. His finger trembles on the trigger. Suddenly he feels like that boy in the car, afraid, uncertain, alone. 

“ _Do it,_ Jesse.”

Jesse hesitates. It’s as if all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. With a shaking hand, he lowers his gun back to his side. He releases the breath he was holding and shudders. He holsters his gun and doesn’t raise his gaze to meet Virgil. 

Virgil claps his hand onto Jesse’s back, a comforting gesture that makes his skin crawl. 

“There, there, Jesse. It’ll be alright. This will all be over soon...” 

Virgil pulls Jesse along by the arm to the next train car. Cassidy and Franco remain behind in the empty car with two dead bodies to finish up their part in this ordeal: disconnecting the train cars. 

In the next car, four more guards await. Virgil’s gun only holds six bullets, but that’s all he needs. Two are spent, lodged into the skulls of the two guards they first encountered. Virgil shoots faster than the four men. With his arm still around Jesse, Jesse feels the recoil of every shot. The sound of bullets hissing through the air until they pierce flesh will haunt Jesse for the rest of his life. He watches, unflinching, as each bullet lodges into each man, blood splattering before them. Each soldier crumbles to the floor. The guards bleed out amongst the crates they were sworn to protect on behalf of the US government. Six people have been shot today. Two are dead, four are on their way unless they receive medical attention soon. 

Virgil pays no mind to the four moaning men who clutch at their wounds in agony. He steps over them as if they are already dead. At this rate, they might as well be. Virgil doesn’t aim to wound. He aims to kill. 

Virgil cracks open one of the army crates and peers inside. Jesse dares step forward to see what was worth shooting six men and pistol whipping a child over. 

“Dynamite. Enough to level a small town completely.” 

Jesse gapes in horror. This heist so wrought with cruelty and death has not been for supplies like they had all been led to believe. Virgil Jackson, damn him to Hell, lied. 

“You said this heist was for supplies. Medical supplies. Foodstuffs. Clothing. What the fuck is this, Virgil?” 

“This is the beginning of Judgment Day, Jesse McCree.” 

“Stop talking shit and explain yourself.” 

“Today is the day Deadlock stakes its claim on New Mexico. Today is the day we make it ours.” 

Jesse shakes his head. He runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes, trying his best to keep his emotions in check. This time he’s really gone and fucked himself. 

“Any minute now Richard will ride along the train and we’ll disconnect these cars from the passenger one. We’ll collect our loot and leave. It’s simple, Jesse.”

Richard. God, Richard. 

“Does anyone else know about this? That what we’re stealing is fucking dynamite from the US Army?”

“No. You are the only one, Jesse. Think for a moment about what this means, think about what I am entrusting you with. I privilege no one else with this information.” 

Jesse doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to be part of Deadlock anymore. The stakes have risen too high. He’s crossed the line in the sand. Suddenly being part of Deadlock is no longer like being in a family. Suddenly he feels like he’s been taken hostage--not only physically, but with the priviledge of knowledge Virgil has bestowed upon him. He wants to run and run and run and never look back. Being a toy soldier in Virgil’s personal war isn’t what he signed up for. He enlisted in the wrong goddamn war.

Virgil picks up a bundle of dynamite, as if to appraise its quality. He smirks, fiendish, and if Jesse didn’t know different, he could swear he sees the Mark of the Beast on Virgil’s forehead. Six bullets, six bodies, six members of Deadlock. 666. He places the orange bundle of sticks back onto the pile. 

“Come. We have what we want. Let’s move on to the next part.” 

They go back into the other car where Cassidy and Franco stand guard. They look like shit. Like they’ve been having their own arguments with God or maybe the Devil himself. 

Cassidy stops pacing. She unfolds her arms across her chest, and her blonde hair frames her face like a halo from a Medieval painting of the divine. 

“Boss?” 

“We have the supplies. We’re ready to disconnect the cars.” 

Cassidy and Franco head out to the space between the cargo and passenger cars. Jesse peers through the door’s small window and sees Cody standing guard over the passengers, having filled in once he came back from securing the engine car. The dark haired man holds his rifle to his chest like it’s a crucifix. 

Time moves by quickly. Jesse doesn’t pay attention to the people around him. All he can think about is Richard Westbrook, the man he’s decided he’s going to run away with. The moment they get back to the hideout he’s going to tell Dick they’re leaving in the middle of the night and never looking back. 

One moment he’s staring out at the passing wilderness with his heart racing in terror; the next, Jesse sees Richard at the rendezvous up ahead, waiting for them with horses and two empty wagons to lug back the “supplies.” 

“We’re ready, boss,” Franco announces, stirring Jesse from his thoughts. 

Virgil crosses the juncture between the train cars and opens the door. He gestures for Cody to cross back over to the car where two dead guards lie. Cody doesn’t close the door behind them, perhaps as a precaution in case one passenger dares speak up again. He comes over, back into the waiting arms of Cassidy, and the husband and wife pair go back into the car, away from Virgil, Franco, and Jesse. 

“On the count of three, I want you to disconnect the cars, understood?”

The countdown happens slow, too slow. The man has the gall to retrieve his lighter to light a cigar. Virgil’s pauses between three numbers are deliberate. When Jesse realizes why, it’s too late. 

What happens next will haunt Jesse McCree for the rest of his life. 

From the corner of Jesse’s eye, he sees Virgil drop the cigar bud and stomp it out onto the metal floor. Then, Virgil reaches into the inside of his black coat and reveals two sticks of orange dynamite. Before Jesse can put the pieces together, Virgil flicks his lighter and ignites the fuse. 

“Three.” 

Unknowing, Franco disconnects the two cars and grabs hold of the emergency brake. Jesse watches in horror as the lit fuse of the dynamite grows shorter and shorter as the stick flies through the air, into the open door of the passenger car. Jesse doesn’t even think to brace himself from the shifting momentum of their car beginning to slow abruptly. No countdown could have prepared him for this. Virgil grabs hold of his shirt and steadies him with a firm, possessive grip, like a dog yanked by its chain. 

The explosion happens several feet away as their car slows, and the three men still feel the burst of heat from the small fireball. Smoke billows from the damaged windows and door in plumes, dissipating in the wake of the train as it speeds ahead without pause. To a witness watching from afar, the smoke might look like a trail of steam from a locomotive. The train keeps moving forward despite the atrocity in its new final car. The exterior of the car appears relatively undamaged, but inside... 

Jesse may not be able to see it first hand, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t take much to hurt innocent, huddled people when it comes to explosives.

Jesse stands there, lamely, watching the train become a smaller and smaller dot on the endless horizon before them until it disappears. The train will pull into station, the conductor will disembark, the assistants will open the doors, and they’ll find… 

Vomit rises up his throat. He shoves Franco aside, who stands dumbfounded as well, and he empties his stomach over the side of the railing. He dry heaves until nothing comes up, nothing but shame, confusion, terror, and quaking anger. 

He remembers the faces of the terrified passengers who were forced to hand over their possessions to Cassidy and Franco. Then, the boy, oh God that boy who had looked at him with complete and utter hate. His heart pounds in his chest so fast, so hard, it feels like it’s about to explode in his chest. His head throbs. Why hadn’t he done anything? He could’ve saved all those people if he'd only…

What would his own mother and father think if they knew what their younger son had become?  
And James. What would James think? James would have stood up to Virgil and shot him when he had the goddamn chance because James was a hero.

Jesse thought he hated himself before, but it’s nothing compared to this. He prays with all his might for lightning, God, or maybe even the Devil himself to strike him down. 

Who’s he kidding. Neither God nor the Devil will put him out of his misery so easily. No, for the sins he’s committed and the sins he’s had a hand in today, eternal damnation will come through bearing witness to this crime. He’ll carry this cross as his penance wherever he goes. 

x X x

Silence falls between Jesse and Hanzo as Jesse abruptly trails off. Before Hanzo can reach out to Jesse or say a word, Jesse flinches back and moves away from the comforting hand. 

“ _Don’t!_ ”

“Jesse--”

“Don’t you get it? I’m fuckin’ cursed. Everyone who crosses paths with me gets hurt in the end.” Jesse struggles to say the words evenly. “I could’ve done more for those people and I didn’t. I stood by and let Virgil push them around and hurt them.” He doesn’t raise his head to look at Hanzo, and his brown hair curtains his face. “You should get the Hell away from me, Hanzo. You might catch this. You deserve better than to end up like everyone else. You’ve got your brother to look after. You’ve got enough shit on your plate without me addin’ to it. I should’ve known better and stayed away from you. Maybe if I wasn’t such a selfish coward. I just… I just couldn’t help myself. I’m weak, so fuckin’ weak. I just need--” He buries his face in his hands, muffling a choked sob. Jesse’s hands thread into his hair and he curls in upon himself, shuddering. “I just need you and I hate myself for it.”

“Urusai!”

One word startles Jesse out of his stupor enough to force him to look towards Hanzo, who won’t entertain this any further. 

“ _Stop_ this, Jesse, please.” 

Hanzo takes Jesse’s hand, squeezes it tight, and then he pulls him closer. Jesse doesn’t resist or fight back; he moves into Hanzo’s embrace eagerly. Their arms wrap around each other. Jesse lays his head in the crook of Hanzo’s neck, and he turns his head to try to hide the tears that slide down his cheeks. 

“I’ve tried so hard to forget about all this but it always comes back no matter how far I run. No matter how deep I try to bury it, it’s always there. I can’t escape it. My conscience won’t let me forget it.” Jesse sighs and digs his fingers into the softness of Hanzo’s shirt. “Now this shit’s creeping into California, and I don’t know what the fuck to do. I’ll have to run again only this time I’ll be leavin’ behind people…” he trails off and lifts his head to look into Hanzo’s brown eyes. He takes Hanzo’s chin into his hand. His voice falls to a whisper, “I’ll be leavin’ behind someone I...someone I don’t want to live without.”

Jesse closes his eyes and presses his forehead against Hanzo’s. “I don’t know why the fuck you’re still here. You shoulda stayed clear when you had the chance, Hanzo.” 

“Please stop talking about yourself like this,” Hanzo says with his brows narrowed. “I told you hours ago that I have no place judging your past when I have committed my own fair share of things I regret. Do not put me on a pedestal. We are not so different, you and I, when it comes to handling our mistakes.” 

Hanzo relaxes his shoulders. He runs his fingers through Jesse’s hair and begins to explain.

“The Shimada Clan was and perhaps still is a criminal enterprise. We may not have participated in train robberies, but we did command the villages around our estate to serve our needs. We often held children, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives hostage when a business or a household refused to pay their protection money to us. My brother and I were raised to be capable businessmen, yes, but we were also trained to be capable killers if necessary. I told you before that I once cut out a man’s tongue for threatening Genji. In the grand scheme of things, that is possibly one of the least incriminating crimes I have committed.” 

Hanzo takes a deep breath. He thinks back to the days spent in Hanamura as leader of the Clan. He never thought twice about the consequences of his actions. He gave commands and the world around him quivered at his feet. Everyone obeyed him and perhaps feared him, the young master of the Shimada Clan. Except for his brother Genji, of course. He could never make Genji obey until it mattered.

“My relationship with Genji grew strained after our mother died, but when I took over as leader after our father was killed, our relationship deteriorated quickly. We argued over everything. He tried to offer his advice for how we should move Clan Shimada into the twentieth century, how we could change and adapt. He even suggested that perhaps we move away from criminal operations to legal types of business. He said we should be trying to make Hanamura and the region nearby better as a community. I didn’t care. I didn’t listen. The only voices I paid mind to where those of our family’s elders, and even then I quarreled with them. 

“Eventually Genji stopped coming around. I knew he ran off into the towns nearby and possibly into the bigger cities. For a time I didn’t care whether or not he ever came back. Genji of course did. I used to treat him so poorly, Jesse. I used to be ashamed of him when he came back to our castle drunk or hungover. Sometimes he came back with cuts or bruises from fights he must have gotten into. As time passed the elders grew tired of hearing of Genji’s exploits, and he was brought forward. A chance to explain himself. During that confrontation I learned what he had been doing in the towns. I learned that the elders I looked to for counsel had been operating brothels, participating in the trafficking of people, and you could say it was in that moment Genji’s days in Hanamura were numbered.” Hanzo swallows thickly. “Shortly after that confrontation the elder I spoke of before, Nishimura, he and the others ordered me to execute Genji.” He sighs. “You know the rest.” 

Hanzo slumps back into the cushions of the couch and out of Jesse’s arms. He massages his temple and then glances back to Jesse at his side, who stares at him with a deep frown on his face. 

“So as you can now see, when I say that you and I aren’t different, I mean it. You promised you would protect and look after me. I vowed the same promise to you. If I am to trust you, then you must trust me as well. I will not tolerate hearing you demean yourself because you wish to elevate me at your own expense. We are either on the same level footing or we cannot go any further.” 

Jesse blinks at Hanzo with his lips parted. A blush spreads across his tanned cheeks, and he runs a hand through his wild hair. 

“I just want you to know that I’m tryin’ hard to be a different man than what that wanted poster would otherwise lead people to believe. I can see now that you’re right. Maybe we aren’t so different after all.” Jesse leans in close to Hanzo and his eyes fall half-lidded. “I want this to go right. I want to… y’know, keep courtin’ you. I was afraid you’d see how damaged I am you’d realize I’m not worth it.”

“What did I just say, Jesse?” Hanzo says curtly. “You and I may both be damaged, but… I don’t know, think of those stupid books you and Genji read. They always talk about new beginnings. Perhaps it’s time you and I fully start over.”

Hanzo leans closer, decreasing the gap between them. He looks up into Jesse’s wide eyes.

“I will only explain this once more, so listen closely, cowboy. You said that if anyone dared come for Genji or I that you would not allow that to happen. Well I am not about to let the same happen to you.” His features soften with a small smile. “Watashi wa orokana anata o ki ni.” 

_I care about you, stupid._

Hanzo closes the space and presses a kiss to Jesse’s lips. He lingers for only a moment, but the kiss has an immediate effect on Jesse. His cowboy smiles back at him, far more timid than ever before, and it makes his heart skip in his chest. This feeling once so foreign to him feels more familiar, more welcomed. Needed. 

“After all, Jesse McCree, you still owe me a trip to the local hot springs.” Hanzo quirks a brow in mischief. “I believe we arranged a bet, too. I have warmed up to the idea of the desert, but I still have my doubts that it could be as beautiful as Hanamura.”

Jesse laughs sheepishly. His mood lifts even more after the evening they have had. Hanzo sees the glimmer return to Jesse’s eyes. The tension in Jesse’s shoulders dissipates. His voice drips with honey once more. His lopsided smile makes Hanzo blush. 

“Well, darlin’, you may be my sakura sweetheart, but I’m pretty sure you’ll be eatin’ those words when I take you out there.”

They embrace. They hold one another for a long time in companionable silence. Then, Hanzo hears a low rumble from Jesse. He tilts his head and sees that Jesse has fallen asleep against him. He brushes the messy hair out of his eyes and caresses Jesse’s scruffy jaw. He leans back against the couch and carefully situates Jesse onto his back, with his head laying once more in his lap like earlier in the evening. He’s thankful Jesse has fallen into a deep sleep, no doubt exhausted from sharing his story. 

Hanzo watches him for several minutes, his eyelids growing heavier as time passes until he can no longer keep his eyes open. He strokes Jesse’s hair, listens to his even, gentle breathing, and falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to the following artists who made art for this story!! Thank you so much <3
> 
> [ tigerbunnybyphysx](http://tigerbunnybyphysx.tumblr.com/post/150837730538/you-dont-have-to-run-no-more-im-here-with), for their piece depicting the rain scene from chapter 14. 
> 
> [ oh-what-a-joy](http://oh-whata-joy.tumblr.com/post/151302819900/hanzo-in-1910s-western-clothing-this-was-drawn), for drawing Hanzo in 1920s style western clothing!
> 
> [ domirine](http://bamfbugboy.tumblr.com/post/151390801413/you-are-so-willing-to-rush-into-the-unknown-for), who we commissioned to draw the rain scene. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Petals also has a playlist made by the both of us authors!](http://bamfbugboy.tumblr.com/post/151212246303/when-you-say-nothing-at-all-a-playlist-for-petals)


	17. A Long Expected Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long evening talking about their pasts, Hanzo and Jesse have a late morning together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a heads up, the POV of the narrative will be changing more frequently in this chapter, as delineated by a x X x in the text. Thank you everyone for reading! We hope you enjoy this chapter.

Hanzo wakes with a low groan. The morning sun shines warmly down onto his face, peering through the musty curtains in front of the window. He rubs at his tired eyes, wipes the drying drool on his chin with his sleeve, and reaches back to undo the ribbon in his hair after leaving it up all night. Black hair falls down his shoulders like spilled ink. He murmurs quietly to himself and shifts his sore legs, where Jesse rests his head. He runs a hand through Jesse's brown hair absently while the other man sleeps. 

Last night plays through his mind, the memories still fresh. They shared every emotion on the spectrum after Hanzo shared the wanted poster. They revealed truths about themselves, shouldered burdens, and found common ground together. They comforted one another. The talk of Jesse's involvement with Deadlock did not frighten or disturb Hanzo; in fact, it had eased his worries about trusting Jesse greatly. Jesse appeared to be walking the same path as he. They both wanted to work towards redemption for their past actions. If Jesse could try to start over somewhere new, then Hanzo had no excuse to not strive for the same.

Then, there had been the shared kisses. Multiple ones. Kissing between them became more than gentle, hesitant moments of contact. They exchanged more than soft caresses. The exploration became more than innocent, and the look Jesse gave him when their eyes met felt far more than simply affectionate. He saw something he had never seen before. He felt pleasure he had never known before. His body felt as taut as a bowstring as Jesse touched him. 

Much had changed in a matter of days, now that the walls keeping them apart had fallen. 

Oh, Hanzo had read of romance and fancy in the damned novels Genji made him read. He knew the grammar of passion through vicarious experience. Lived experience, on the other hand, will always be completely different. 

Hanzo feels... conflicted. Torn between excitement that manifested itself as butterflies in his stomach and the thudding of his heart in shock. Every step on this path is unfamiliar, new, and uncertain. Hanzo felt flustered when Jesse splayed his palm against his chest, but he wanted to be touched. Needed to be touched. Desperately. In those moments where Jesse pinned him to the cushion of the couch, he felt like he was on fire. He still can't wrap his head around it. 

Jesse stirs against Hanzo's thigh. He yawns, stretches his arms, arches his back like a cat, and then opens his eyes. He smiles up at Hanzo lazy and half-asleep, like he's still in the midst of dreaming. 

"Mornin' sweetheart." 

"Jesse." 

Jesse closes his eyes and hums appreciatively. "Your leg sure is a nice pillow." 

Hanzo smiles to himself. "Did you sleep well?" 

"Pretty damn good, really. Sounds kind of crazy, y'know, given the evening. But I was out like a light." Jesse sits up and scratches his neck. He shrugs, half-hearted, as he looks to Hanzo. "You probably didn't sleep too well upright, though. Sorry about that." 

"It’s alright, I do not mind at all. I have slept in worse positions." 

"I don't want to even begin to imagine." 

Hanzo smirks playfully. He pats Jesse's shoulder and then sighs. "You needed your rest." 

"I mean it, Hanzo, either way. I apologize. Next time I'll try to remember to fall into bed instead." 

Hanzo blushes. His heart skips at the mere idea of sharing a bed with this man, even to sleep.

"Perhaps next time you should." 

The flirtatious words slip past his lips before he realizes the implication. Jesse raises a brow and leans closer, his curiosity piqued. 

“You flirtin’ with me Hanzo?”

Hanzo snorts. “Perhaps I am.”

"Well I’ll be damned, is that right?" Jesse cups Hanzo's chin and holds him still. His mouth hovers mere inches from Hanzo's. "I bet I could make you enjoy fallin' into bed with me." 

Hanzo takes advantage of the sudden surge in confidence Jesse's words inject into his veins. He closes the gap. Kissing excites him more than he would have ever expected. He dreamt about it. He craved more in his dreams. He wanted to hear Jesse's breathy sighs and his murmured approval in his drawl. He wanted to hear his name uttered upon those chapped lips. He wanted to feel the man's hands on his body once more. Even if it had embarrassed him the first time, he wanted to release the built up tension in his heart through whimpers and moans. He craved the cowboy's praise more than he’d freely admit aloud.

Hanzo can claim no expertise in the matter, but kissing does make him feel good. Jesse tilts his head at an angle, deepening their encounter, and when his tongue presses against Hanzo's lips, Hanzo lets him in. The slippery texture of tongue upon tongue elicits a muffled moan from Hanzo. The sensation of a scratchy beard rubbing against his jaw tickles him, it quickens his pulse. 

"Mm. You're mighty eager this morning," Jesse purrs during a pause in their exploration. He toys with one suspender and presses his thumb against Hanzo's jugular, which pounds beneath the touch. 

Hanzo can't explain himself. He arches his neck, bearing his flesh, hoping, perhaps even praying, that Jesse McCree will take obvious bait. 

Jesse does, without hesitation. 

The hot mouth falls to his adam's apple, sucking hard. Teeth graze against his skin. Jesse kisses him, over and over, leaving a trail of red, blotchy skin in his wake. This alone overwhelms Hanzo into submission he has never relinquished to someone else before. If this was what Genji implied when he spoke of what he and Jesse could do together, consummating their affections, he never wants it to stop. He could care less about starting the day bright and early, if this is what he would be missing out on. 

Thankfully, Jesse holds him steady as they kiss against the plush cushions--an encore to rival last night. Jesse takes his time, the Devil, and he makes sure to not miss any inch of Hanzo's bare flesh during this journey. 

"Mm, Hanzo," Jesse sighs. "If we're not careful, your neck's gonna be covered in marks. People'll ask questions." 

Hanzo opens his eyes. He glances down and notices that Jesse's looking at him with a mischievous grin splitting his face. He runs a hand over his hair. 

Despite the fact that yes, the marks will be seen above his collar, Hanzo's worries and modesty feel so far out of reach, no longer tangible components of his own self. The pressure of Jesse's lips upon his skin feels too divine, too relaxing--his thoughts have all but slurred, as if he drank far too much sake. 

A daring thumb brushes over his clothed chest, grazing a nipple, and Hanzo shudders. He can't even form words, only soft sounds. 

"Oh..." 

Jesse's eyes fall half-lidded. His lips part in awe, and he smirks. "That's right, Hanzo. Don't think for one moment I forgot what I heard slip past those pretty lips of yours last night." 

Hanzo's face burns. He blinks at Jesse, breathless, and he presses forward to kiss him again. Jesse’s thumb keeps drawing circles around and around the firm, clothed peak. This is what torture is; it’s never enough to satiate him, he craves more, and he’s tempted to throw caution to the wind, to give into his wild curiosities, to tell Jesse to take the lead and--

_Crash!_

Jesse peels away from Hanzo and turns his head towards the door leading to the stairs from his room. He purses his brows. He looks back to Hanzo, and they both get up off of the couch. 

Jesse grabs Peacemaker and holds it firmly in his grip. Hanzo follows after with a small knife in his hands, and they head out the door in a hurry. Whatever that sound was, it can't mean anything good. It's still morning. People don't arrive for lunch until a few hours. 

They quietly make their descent down the stairs, and Hanzo peers around the corner to find... 

_Oh._

He peers around the corner to find Lena sitting on the floor of the saloon, rubbing her lower back next to a fallen ladder. Angela kneels beside her, checking her head. 

"I don't feel any bumps. You need to be careful, Lena. Let Amelie hold the ladder next time." 

"Yes, cherie." 

"Amelie, you should be resting! The party isn't until later!" 

"You both should rest. Let me handle this." 

Genji picks up the unspooled blue velvet ribbon from off of the wooden floor and climbs the ladder. It wobbles, unsteady, and Angela 'tsks' to herself. 

"Genji, please. Be careful."

"Don't worry, Angela," Amelie says with a small smile. "I'll keep an eye on them both." 

"Danke." 

Lena rolls her eyes, and as she opens her mouth to speak, she catches sight of Hanzo and Jesse standing in the stairway. She pokes her head around Angela and laughs cheerfully. 

"Oi! Look here, everyone! Jesse and Hanzo have decided to show up for the party!" 

All eyes turn to them, and the two of them stiffen in embarrassment. Caught red handed. 

"Aw, hell. I completely forgot." Jesse runs a hand over his face and holsters Peacemaker as he turns to Hanzo. "It's Fareeha's birthday today." 

Mrs. Amari, who had been laying out tablecloths over the many tables inside of the saloon, walks over to them with her arms folded across her chest. She looks unhappy, with a disapproving frown upon her face. The hair on the back of Hanzo’s neck stands on end. He remembers that same expression on his mother’s face when he and Genji were in trouble. He sheathes his blade quickly and tries to look as inconspicuous as possible beside the taller man.

"Jesse, it's nearly ten in the morning. Maria is bringing Fareeha and Hana here in two hours, and there is still much to do. You said you were going to take care of lunch today. You promised." 

Hanzo has heard this exact tone of voice plenty of times from his own late mother--more often than not, Hanzo had been on the receiving end of the scolding instead of his younger brother. 

Beside him, Jesse stands stiffly, mortified. He smiles sheepishly while scratching the back of his neck. 

"Gosh, I'm sorry ma'am. We, uh, we just woke up." 

Mrs. Amari raises a brow and then looks to Hanzo. 

"Uh. What I mean is we've been upstairs handling business." The crowd isn't buying it, not one bit, and Jesse’s floundering like a fish out of water. "Y'know... bar business." 

Ana eyes Jesse. She clearly enjoys watching him squirm under her motherly gaze, if the amusement stark on her face is anything to go by. She nods with a smile. 

"I see. Are you still able to help?" 

"What! Of course! I promised, didn't I? Listen. Let me just freshen up a bit and I'll be back before you know it, ma'am." 

"Good." 

After Ana leaves to return to her work, Genji comments before Jesse heads back upstairs. 

"So I see I am too late to offer Jesse my gift, Hanzo." 

Hanzo's head sharply turns to address his brother while he pins decorative ribbon bows the three women are making for him down below. 

"What are you talking about?" 

Genji smirks. "Haven't you looked in a mirror?" He gestures to his own neck. "You may want to consider a scarf, and you may want to brush your hair." 

"Oh my!" Lena giggles. "Look at that! Congratulations, Hanzo, Jesse! We're so happy you two made up!" 

Angela sighs. "I hope you took appropriate precautions, Jesse." 

For the first time, Hanzo witnesses Jesse turn dark red, like he's been terribly sunburned. 

"Uh... While we all, uh, appreciate the kindness, we uh... We didn't exactly..."

Suddenly Hanzo catches on, and his heart drops in his chest. Just what exactly was everyone around him implying? Were they suggesting he and Jesse had... had _relations?_

"I was wondering why you didn't come back to the inn." 

Hanzo gawks. A vessel in his head throbs. The nerve of his brother, sometimes. In front of all of their... friends. Yes, these people were his friends, but he wanted to keep some matters private. 

"Hey, now," Jesse says with a wry grin and a firm hand upon Hanzo's shoulder, the confidence and charm in his tone returning once more. "We had a late night talking and Hanzo slept on the couch since he was too tired to head back. Him and I got a little bit of bed-head. Nothing to get all excited over. We're gonna go get cleaned up." 

It's like an out of body experience for Hanzo, who feels extreme embarrassment. He has always prided himself for being put together, with an austere aura of sophistication. He barely registers Jesse's arm wrapped around his shoulder, guiding him along. 

Once back inside of Jesse's room, Jesse turns Hanzo and pats his cheek gently. 

"Hey. You alright? I realize we might have walked into that without really thinkin'." 

Hanzo shrugs, awkwardly. "I don't know." 

"I think everyone sort of already knew we were courting each other. Or at least knew that I fancied you. I know that should have happened better, so I'm sorry for that." 

"I... It is less that and more my own embarrassment of forgetting today is Fareeha's birthday, that I slept in, and that I appeared rather disheveled." 

Jesse chuckles. "Well all of that's amenable. I'm glad you're not shaken up about y'know... the town knowin', and all." 

"Like you said, I think everyone knew before I did." 

Jesse grins toothily. "Problem with small towns, I'm afraid." 

Hanzo laughs at that. He understands completely. 

"I admit," Hanzo says quietly. "Part of me wanted people to see the marks." 

Jesse's eyes widen. "And the other half?" 

"Embarrassed," Hanzo says with a frown. 

"Well since you like lookin' your best, why don't I draw you up a bath so you don't have to hurry on over to the inn and scramble. The heat'll help reduce the, uh, swelling, and you'll be able to clean up a bit 'n all that. I'm just gonna change into somethin' fresh."

Hanzo nods and then follows Jesse into the adjacent bathroom, where a metal bathtub bin rests in the middle. Jesse twists the knobs and water falls from the faucet to fill the basin. He fetches a bar of soap and a hand towel, offering both to Hanzo, who takes them. 

"I'll fetch some of my clothes and leave it outside the door. Don't worry. I'll try to pick out somethin' you'll like. Holler if you need anything." 

Hanzo nods. He waits for Jesse to leave and close the door behind him. The tub fills up quickly, and the water lets off steam. The heat in the bathroom grows stifling, but even after he turns off the knob, he hesitates before undressing. His fingers toy with one of the suspenders. He swallows a lump in his throat as one thought occupies his attention: being naked inside what essentially is Jesse's home. 

A knock at the door makes Hanzo flinch. 

"Hey. I left the clothes out here. I'll be downstairs. Don't be too long, handsome." 

Hanzo waits for the sound of retreating footsteps and whistling to grow softer. He quickly undresses, then steps into the bath basin, only to discover that yes, Jesse was right. The hot water does feel good against his neck and sore muscles. He closes his eyes and sighs, content. 

The tub is shorter in length than his body, and as Hanzo leans back and grows more comfortable, he props his legs up onto the rim. He slips beneath the surface to wet his hair. 

When he comes up for air, his shoulder-length hair clings to his face, dripping droplets of water. He takes the washcloth in hand and the soap to start cleaning himself. 

Alone in the bathroom, Hanzo finds it quiet and peaceful, with the only noise coming from the gentle sloshing of the water and the low murmur of the party planners downstairs. It's the first time in what feels like so long where he's given himself a chance to relax, to breathe, to let his shoulders sag. The tension in his muscles fades away and the neutral smell of the soap makes him feel clean after their day trip into the valley yesterday. 

Hanzo's mind wanders to the inevitable. His blossoming relationship with Jesse McCree. He sinks down again, immersing himself deep enough, but not too much to not be able to breathe. He closes his eyes. The cowboy stares back, and the words of promised intimacy play through his thoughts, sultry and divine. His face flushes as he slips his hand into the water and places it on his bare chest. He thinks of how Jesse kissed him so roughly, so desperately, as his fingers drag over his muscles to toy with his nipple. He draws circles around the peak, imagining it's Jesse's finger, not his own. 

The cowboy's name slips past his lips like a plea. Hanzo’s face burns, and his eyes dart to the door, waiting for someone to burst in at any moment to see him exposed in this moment of vulnerability. He doesn’t know why the cowboy makes him so flustered. Jesse McCree is just a man, a man no different than any other, a man bound by the same natural laws as the rest of them, a man who… who does manage to make Hanzo Shimada feel special, wanted. 

Hanzo finishes his bath and rises to his feet carefully, with rivulets of water sliding down his bare body. He drains the basin after stepping out. He stretches his loosened muscles and looks around Jesse's bathroom, searching for a towel. Nothing in sight. With a frown, he checks inside the cabinet underneath the sink and finds two pristine white towels. He grabs both and unfolds them to discover they're only hand towels, hardly big enough to wrap around his waist. 

Hanzo sighs. He admires the cowboy, but couldn't he at least furnish his home properly? He tries in vain to wrap the towel around his midsection, and only once it's as secure as it's going to be does Hanzo start to wring out his hair with the other towel and open the door. 

"Oh. Uh. Sorry." 

Hanzo lowers the towel from his head immediately and freezes. Jesse stands before him, gaping, red as a tomato, his eyes wide in shock. Hanzo's face burns in embarrassment. They stare at one another, awkwardly, and then Jesse closes his eyes and covers them with his palm. 

The fact that Jesse is trying to be a gentleman helps ease the feeling of exposure. Hanzo swallows thickly. Nonetheless, Jesse had plenty of time to look upon him, nearly naked, for the first time. 

"Do you have a bigger towel?" 

"Oh. Yeah. Sure do. Sorry--I did laundry yesterday but I guess I forgot to put it all away." Jesse turns away quickly and heads to his basket of cleaned laundry to retrieve a thicker, larger blue towel. He offers it to Hanzo, with his eyes still closed and a lop-sided smile on his face. Their fingers brush against one another, and it’s as if sparks fly between them.

Hanzo wraps himself in the bigger piece of cloth, blushing, and then clears his throat. He stands up straighter, more confident now that he's no longer feeling so on display. 

Jesse opens his eyes and chuckles sheepishly. He takes a step forward and cups Hanzo's cheek. 

"I mean it, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to come up and walk in on ya like that. I promise I'm here with a purpose. Ana wanted to borrow the nicer china I keep up here for special occasions." 

Hanzo can't think of a witty retort. Jesse stands so close to him he can smell the aroma of peppers he must have been cutting downstairs on him. His thoughts stall, his brain fried by the weight of Jesse's gaze upon him. Hanzo blushes as he watches Jesse's eyes flicker down to gaze upon the dragon tattoo he's seeing fully for the first time. 

Jesse makes a low sound of approval. "But hell, you're one good-looking man, Hanzo." 

Hanzo finds himself smirking despite how new this all feels to him. He places a steadying hand on Jesse's shoulder. 

"I take good care of myself, Jesse, to make sure I look my best." 

This sets Jesse off like a fuse. He closes the gap between them and steals Hanzo's mouth in a hungry, breathy kiss. His fingers cup the back of Hanzo's neck, craning him up to deepen the angle, and then they trail lower, over the black and yellow blotches painted upon pale skin--marks Hanzo isn't ashamed to admit make him feel wanton. Then, the calloused pads fall to his chest, wide thumbs drawing circles around the warm peak of Hanzo's nipples. 

Hanzo forgets the day, the time, the place, as Jesse touches him. They've been like this since last night, but Hanzo can't get enough of how good it feels to surrender to the unknown. To experience something he thought he'd never come to know. He opens his eyes and sees Jesse staring back with the same intensity. 

"You're a mighty fine tease, Hanzo." 

Hanzo rolls his eyes and scoffs. "You are the one who," he adds air quotes to underscore his sarcasm, "'forgot to put away his own laundry.' Convenient." 

"Oh Hanzo." Jesse grins and chuckles. He pushes Hanzo back against the bathroom door he emerged from earlier. "I feel so scorned! I feel like you're accusin' me of something awfully conniving. Now little ole me," Jesse lowers his voice and nudges a knee between Hanzo's legs. He pulls Hanzo forward by the hips and helps him grind against his thigh. "Gosh, I'd never..." 

"Oh," Hanzo's eyes flutter closed. His toes curl against the hard wooden floor. Pleasure shoots down his spine and his abdomen aches. To his continued timidness, he feels his own cock come further to life against Jesse’s leg. Surely if Jesse looked down he'd notice. Hanzo groans. Pinned to the door, trapped against Jesse, he savors the way it feels to relinquish control. He doesn't care what Jesse sees; in fact, he wants Jesse to know his arousal. 

"Mm. You like that, don't you, sweetheart?" Jesse purrs against Hanzo's ear, his breath warm. Hanzo shudders and arches his back into the touch. Jesse’s palm splays across his abdomen, along the hem of the towel. "You look so good, squirmin' against me... I think I've wrangled myself a fine stallion." 

_Ahem._

Hanzo opens his eyes and blinks right as Jesse leans away and looks over his shoulder. 

Lena stands in the doorway wide eyed, with her lips parted, and her hands clasped in front of her. She scratches her neck and laughs nervously. 

"I don't know about that line, Jesse. 'Wrangled myself a fine stallion?'" 

Hanzo turns his attention to the red eared cowboy whose adam's apple bobs and whose nose wrinkles in self-admonishment. 

Jesse takes a step back from Hanzo and runs a hand through his hair. "Lena..." 

"I'm just teasin' you, love. I promise I didn't come up here just to walk in on you, really, I tried to knock, but the door sort of just... opened." 

Hanzo groans and glares arrowheads at his damn foolish cowboy. "Do you not have locks on your door?" 

"I-I didn't expect to be up here for long," Jesse admits, mumbling. 

"Well whatever's on the grill downstairs is starting to charr. Ana's just about ready to flay you alive. I thought I'd come tell you--I don't think she'd appreciate you up here enjoying a good snog when you're needed downstairs." Lena winks. "But I can see why you became _distracted_." 

"That was purely an accident. I--" Jesse turns to Hanzo, as if to request support. 

Hanzo can't help but smirk; the sight of the flirtatious cowboy smitten but also so caught unawares makes up for the fact that moments before he had been in that position. 

"I'll make sure Jesse gets to work downstairs." 

"Good, good. That's why Ana likes you, Hanzo! You keep this ship spick and span!” She unclasps her hands and smiles. "I'm off to pick up papa from the station." She turns and heads back down the stairwell, only to stop at the only landing to address Jesse again. "Hop to it!"

"Right, right, I'll be goin' in just a moment." Jesse closes the door to his room and locks it this time for sure privacy. He shifts back to Hanzo and cups his chin. "I am so sorry about that. Seems like I’ve been sayin’ that all mornin’.”

“Perhaps it’s because you have been, cowboy." Hanzo shrugs. Being caught _by_ Jesse left him more flustered than being caught _with_ Jesse. He can already hear Genji laughing through the floorboards as Lena dramatically recounts the accidental walk-in to the others. "You should not test Mrs. Amari’s patience. You are needed downstairs. I do not wish to be the reason the food burns." 

Jesse nods and smiles softly. "Alright, alright," he whispers. "We'll pick this up later darlin’." 

Hanzo swallows in anticipation. In such close proximity, Jesse's hot breath warms his skin, his gaze boring into him. It's Jesse's attempt to rekindle the smolder, and Hanzo wants it, needs it. The look in Jesse's brown eyes leaves no room for doubt with Hanzo. He wants Jesse to see him, to know him. 

"We better." 

"Mmm." Jesse chuckles. "So demanding." 

"Hush. Go. I can smell the smoke from the grill." 

Jesse chuckles. "Alright. Get dressed. I'll see you downstairs pardner."

x X x 

Lena can't help but grin to herself as she races back down the stairs from Jesse’s room. She comes to Amelie's side and kisses her cheek. She places her hand on her shoulder, and Amelie turns to look down at her.

"I'm heading out to pick up papa. Do you want to come with me?" 

"Of course." Amelie glances over to Angela and Genji, who giggle with each other while hanging paper decorations along the bar counter. "Ana left to meet with Reinhardt and Torbjorn for the bicycle." 

Lena offers her arm and Amelie takes it with a smile. 

"Hey, lovebirds, Amelie and I are going to the train station. We'll be back soon. Don't have too much fun without us!"

Caught in the act, Genji and Angela turn to each other, blushing, and smile sheepishly. 

"Jesse will be down any minute too. Don't tease him or Hanzo too much, Genji--I caught them enjoying a good ole fashioned snog up there! Hanzo was almost naked!"

"What!" Genji gapes, in shock. "My poor brother." 

"Oh, I think he was quite enjoying it!" Lena says in a sing-song voice. "Now you be nice with them!" 

"Of course,” Genji smirks, impish. “I would never be anything less with my brother." 

Lena and Amelie wave goodbye and then leave the saloon. They step into the midmorning sun, and Lena lays her head against Amelie's shoulder. 

"How are you feeling, love?" 

Amelie blinks and stops walking. She sighs and reaches up to run a hand over her long brown hair. 

"Better, merci. Et toi?"

"Tres bien!” Her French never has been her strong suit, but she tries every day to incorporate a little of Amelie’s native tongue to everyday life. “Today's a good day. It's beautiful outside, absolutely stunning. I’m so happy Fall is here. Father is coming home, it's Fareeha's birthday, Angela is the happiest I've ever seen her, and now Jesse..." Lena hums to herself. "Lately I felt that he looked rather glum, out of spirits. I think he's always been happy here, but I think he's found something different. He looks so in love, it’s touching. I think even Hanzo feels it too.”

Lena stands on the tips of her toes and places a kiss upon Amelie's lips, catching her by surprise. 

"Seeing my friends fall in love is wonderful. I want them to experience what I feel whenever I'm alone with you." 

Amelie blushes and chuckles softly. "You are always so thoughtful." 

“You know me, I’m such a sap for love stories, love.”

They walk down the main dusty road and pass by other townspeople busy about their day. They hear the distant whistle of the train arriving at high noon. 

They cross paths with Ana and Reinhardt and Torbjorn, who head from the metallurgy with the tenderly hand-crafted bicycle in tow. 

"Fareeha's going to be riding that every day to school now, you know. All of the other kids are going to be so distracted. I know Hana will be the worst--she’s going to be begging Jack and Gabriel for one too." 

"Yes." 

"And you know they'll all want to ride it. Me included. I remember all the girls in the city wanted one. I wonder if it's scary, riding one! You might fall over. I wonder how hard it is to stay balanced." 

"No, not if you focus and relax. Maintaining balance is simple." 

"Oh, is it now? Says the professional ballerina." 

Amelie snorts. "I think you could learn to ride a bicycle, easily." 

"I think it would be a rather liberating experience! Racing up and down streets, with the wind in your hair." Lena sighs dreamily. "I'm so excited for Fareeha. Can you believe she's already sixteen?" 

"I cannot. She used to be so small. Now she's taller than you." 

"Not hardly!" 

"I beg to differ." 

Lena nudges Amelie in the ribs, who laughs aloud.

"Ma pauvre chérie." 

"You best be careful, Amelie, love, I'm not afraid to show you the same Jesse showed Hanzo later on." 

Amelie smiles wryly. "Are you sure you'll be able to reach me without a step ladder, ma petite crevette?" She asks, her tone as dry as the warm October day. She does her best to keep a straight face but then fails. She starts to giggle, and as much as she tries to stop, she can’t help herself.

"Oh, I know what that word means! I’m _not_ shrimpy! We will see who has the last laugh later, won't we!"

Amelie wraps her arm around Lena and pulls her aside, out of the middle of the street. She leans down and kisses the top of her forehead. 

"You know I'm teasing, right?" 

Lena rolls her eyes and then winks. "Of course. We both know I can reach you just fine on my own two feet." 

Amelie nods. "Bien," she wipes away the smudge of lipstick left behind by her kiss and pats her cheek. 

They arrive at the train station after walking only a little further. They find Mr. Charles Oxton, Twenty Nine Palm's resident postmaster, standing outside the station building with a leather suitcase in his hand, with glasses upon his face and his brown hair as messy as his daughter's. They wave to each other, and then Lena runs up to him and embraces him tightly. 

"It's good to see you again, Papa." 

"I was only gone for a few days." 

Lena smiles as she recalls so similar of a conversation between Reinhardt and Ana just yesterday. Distance always makes the heart grown fonder. After nearly losing her father in the Great War to none other than the infamous Red Baron himself, seeing him for the first time after being apart always makes her teary eyed. Even if he was only gone for a week in Los Angeles to connect with other immigrated veterans of the war, she missed him no less. She squeezes him tighter and buries her head into his chest. 

"I know, but I always miss you." 

"Well I'm home for good. The Newbury War Commission has everything they needed from us to start building a cemetery and memorial." Her father ruffles her hair and sighs. He wipes away the budding tears in her eyes. "And I missed you too, Lena." 

Lena steps back and sniffles. "I'm glad you're home." 

"Welcome back, Monsieur Oxton." 

Charles looks past his daughter to see Amelie standing behind Lena with her hands clasped before her. 

"Ah, Amelie. It's good to see you again, come here." He brings Amelie into the group hug. "I hope you both have been well, I heard there have been some intense storms out here. Everything okay?" 

"Fantastic. Absolutely swell." 

"Good, good--and you, Amelie, are you feeling better?" 

"I have been following Doctor Ziegler's instructions, trying to stick to my diet, and I do feel much better." 

"Hopefully my little girl has been taking good care of you." 

Lena blushes. "Father..." 

"It's important, Lena." 

"Your daughter, as always, has been a blessing in my life," Amelie says, sincerely. "She makes me very happy." 

"Oh, Amelie." Lena says softly. She takes Amelie's hand and kisses the back of it. 

"I can say with great certainty that I understand, Mrs. Lacroix." Charles takes a deep breath and grins. "So I certainly hope I'm in time for Fareeha's party." 

"Just in time. We've been setting up." Lena takes her father’s luggage after silently insisting through a stern stare. "Fareeha is still home with Hana." 

"Good. I have the parcel Ana needed picking up." He hooks his arm through Lena's. "I can't wait to have a piece of birthday cake." 

"Ana never disappoints, does she?" 

"She certainly does not." Charles turns to Amelie, who holds onto his other arm, helping to steady the veteran. "Remind me, later. I tried some of those delicious macaroons you have talked about so much at a bakery in Los Angeles. I brought some home for you both. The lovely baker gave me the recipe. I was thinking about asking for Jesse to put in an order for the ingredients."

"Mmm, I look forward to trying them. I haven't had one in years." 

"Tell us more about your trip papa, what was it like in the big city?" 

"Los Angeles is a fantastic city; much like how Mister Reyes has often described. Certainly different than London, warmer too..."

x X x 

When Ana returns with her husband and friend, Torbjorn, from the metallurgy, she steps into the High Noon Saloon pleased to see that the birthday preparations have come along well. She surveys the main hall to find the decorations have been placed, the tables set with Jesse’s special china, and the smell of spice hangs in the air from lunch cooking in the kitchen.

"Put the bicycle behind the bar, perhaps the kitchen if Jesse has room. Make sure to add the bow and flowers." 

"Of course, dear," Reinhardt says sweetly while holding the bicycle steady. He kisses his wife's cheek and then follows Torbjorn behind the bar to hide the most important present of all. 

Ana joins Genji, Angela, and Hanzo who sit at one of the tables with cups of coffee.

"Fareeha's going to love that gift," Angela says. "I think it's very touching how much time they spent on it." 

"I'm very proud of their handiwork." Ana sits down beside Hanzo and runs a hand through her dark hair. "I'm happy to see you've finally decided to join us, Hanzo." 

Genji snickers to himself. Angela smiles in amusement over her cup. Hanzo scoffs and mumbles to himself, but not even he can try to deny the look of bliss upon his face. 

"As I said yesterday, Jesse is a good man, and I'm happy you both are together. Perhaps consider being more mindful of the time, however." 

"Yes, _brother_." 

"Hush, Genji," Hanzo growls and rolls his eyes.

Ana recognizes that he wears some of Jesse's clothes, his hair pulled back into a high ponytail. He looks content despite his annoyed tone. She resists the motherly urge to tell them all to behave. She can only imagine what their mother had to go through, with a smile. She shifts her gaze to Angela, who beams beside Genji. The two hold each other's hands, and it reminds Ana of the wistful first few months of her relationship with Reinhardt once they reached the States. Carefree, without worries weighing them down. Since Genji's arrival, Angela has smiled so much more. To her, it was about time Angela let someone else make her happy.

"I appreciate all of your help planning and preparing for Fareeha's birthday. Today is an important day. She'll be taking on greater responsibilities, and she will grow as a young woman." 

Ana finds herself choking up, but she takes a deep breath and composes herself. Today, Reinhardt will surely cry, but she didn't expect to feel the sudden lump in her throat. Sixteen, already. How did time pass by so fast? She can still remember when Fareeha was younger, when the small girl dreamed big dreams and wanted to change the world. For someone so small her daughter had so much love to give. 

Somehow they had managed to survive the war, and together they had each other and then Reinhardt, Angela, Torbjorn, and then the Oxton family and Amelie Lacroix, who they met on the transcontinental train ride to the West coast. Her family grew, and it continued to grow with more love and more good memories. So many birthdays, each special celebrations. The years went by in peace after dealing with strife. She’s thankful they found their little piece of paradise out in the desert. 

When Lena and Amelie return with Mister Oxton, Ana stands from her chair to retrieve the parcel from him. She smiles and thanks him with a hug and a welcome home. 

“Thank you, Charles. I know it was sudden, but I appreciate it dearly.” 

“Of course. I know how important today is for any parent.” Charles Oxton leans on his wooden cane and grins. “Fareeha’s getting to be bigger than my Lena.” 

“Dad!”

Ana snickers and smiles at Lena, who blushes besides her father. The young British girl has always reminded her of her daughter. Free-spirited, eager, proud. She could empathize with Charles for having a stubborn spitfire for a child, especially from her years as a single parent. Charles had been widowed for almost all of Lena’s life, and raising a child alone never was easy. 

Bellowing laughter stirs her from her thoughts. Ana turns and sees her husband heartily laughing with Torbjorn as they step out of the kitchen. 

“And so I said, ‘you’re makin’ a chicken outta a feather!’” Torbjorn says, barely containing his own laughter. 

Reinhardt seizes with merriment once again, doubling over as he places his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Ah, mein gott, you are going to make me bust a gut.” 

Ana’s smile widens. Reinhardt. He lifts his head and meets her gaze, and he and Torbjorn join the gathered group. 

“Ah, I’m sorry. Torbjorn was just telling me a fine story, and he had the gall to include a clever pun.” He bends down and kisses her forehead. “Jesse said the food will be ready shortly.” He wraps his arm around her shoulder and waves to Charles. “Ah, Herr Oxton, it is good to see you again!” 

Charles nods and smiles back, cordial, but it never fully reaches his eyes. Lena pulls him along to sit at one of the booths with Amelie. 

Ana knows Reinhardt understands. The war took so much from them. Sometimes the memories never fully let go. Reinhardt may have defected, but he nonetheless reminds him of the German pilot that shot Charles Oxton, Royal Air Force, out of the sky. 

Reinhardt and Torbjorn sit down at a table where Betsy Lindholm awaits, and they continue their story. Ana joins them, listening absently, as they wait for the final party guests to arrive. 

Maria arrives on time with the two young girls in tow. She dressed Hana in a yellow dress with a pink bow in her hair. She dressed Hana for the first nip of fall chill with a pastel pink scarf and a grey peacoat. Fareeha stands beside her in the doorway with her eyes closed, as Ana instructed her to do once she came to the saloon. She wears a navy blue sweater and jeans. 

Ana and Reinhardt stand to take Fareeha by the hand and lead her inside the saloon. 

“Okay, habibti,” Reinhardt says softly, “open your eyes.” 

Fareeha opens them and a smile spreads across her face as she looks upon her their handiwork and the group of friends waiting for her. The cut-out letter banner over the bar says it all, _Happy Birthday Fareeha._

“Thanks mother, father.” 

“You’re very welcome, Fareeha. Today is a very special day,” Ana explains. “You’re growing into a beautiful young woman, and we’re so proud of you.” 

“Yes, but no matter how tall or big you grow, you will always be my little Pharah,” Reinhardt says while lifting her up into his arms. He kisses her forehead and then sets her down. “I hope you’re ready to eat!”

x X x 

After enjoying a hearty, delicious meal prepared by Jesse, Ana glances to Reinhardt. Her husband smiles at her, broadly, and she can see the barely contained excitement. After months of hard work, soon, their daughter will be able to enjoy the fruits of his hard labor at the metallurgy.

“Perhaps it’s time you opened your presents, Fareeha.” 

The now sixteen year old girl sits back in her chair, grinning, as the gifts start to pour in from their friends. 

“I hope you love it, dear,” Lena says sweetly after offering a thin package wrapped in bright orange wrapping paper. “I think it’ll be just your style.” 

Fareeha tears into it, all too eager to see what awaits her from the woman no older than a few years than her whom she admires. The package gives, revealing a record with an abstract artistic design on the front. 

“Papa picked it up for me, it’s from the both of us! It’s the song I always play when you’re hanging around the inn. This one’s my favorite, by far.” 

“Lena has had that record since she was your age, Fareeha,” Charles says with a smile. “I’ll never forget the day we first bought a gramophone. She played that record without fail twice a day.” 

“I can’t wait to play it!”

Amelie offers her gift next, a smaller gift encased in a knitted bag. She blushes, always shy with her crafted handiwork, but Fareeha’s eyes light up. Inside, Fareeha finds that her teacher has gifted her with several books, fiction, written by her and her father’s favorite author. 

“You will need a book bag, for when you…” Amelie trails off after being nudged playfully in the ribs. “For when you head to school.” 

“Thank you, Miss Lacroix.” 

“Je t'en prie.” 

Angela and Genji present their gifts next. Fareeha opens Genji’s first, and to no one’s surprise but hers, the package reveals the latest issues for several pulp fiction magazines. 

“Thanks, Genji!” She grins. “I really can’t wait to read the next issue for _Zorro._ ” 

“I think you will enjoy it.” 

Angela’s gift earns a completely different response. The heavy, rectangular gift was lovingly wrapped in a piece of fine blue fabric with a silky golden bow. Fareeha pulls apart the cloth to find a large, worn tome. She blinks down and reads the title aloud after blowing off the dust. 

“ _Gray’s Anatomy_.” 

“I have had that copy for years, since university. One of my professors gave it to me. It has marginalia and such wonderful notes in the back pages. You will be heading off to university before you know it, Fareeha, you are a brilliant girl after all. I have no doubt you will be taking a class in anatomy! You can get ahead in your studies!” 

“Thank you…” Fareeha smiles sheepishly. “Miss Ziegler.” 

Ana smirks, chuckles, and pats her daughter’s shoulder. She one day hopes Fareeha will take an interest in medicine, like her late grandmother. “Ah, well, if you start now, habibti, with a few sections a night, you will finish in time for your first science class.” 

“Yeah… can’t wait…” 

Reinhardt laughs. “I have no doubt my dear you’ll be reading it cover to cover!” 

“Open our gift next,” Jesse suggests, saving the young girl from the awkwardness of being uncertain about a gift. “Hanzo picked it out for you.” 

Fareeha raises her brow as she stares down at the curiously small box with a lid. She lifts it up to reveal a pouch of tea. She pulls the drawstring open slightly to smell the leaves for herself. Vanilla, cinnamon, cloves, and ginger most prominently. 

“It’s chai. A blend I find helps me relax after a long day,” Hanzo says softly. 

“Hell, it actually tastes great, and I’m always skeptical when it comes to tea and coffee. I hate drinking boiled dirt.” 

Hanzo rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Fareeha giggles to herself, as aware as everyone else about the two of them recently becoming a couple. 

“Thank you Jesse, Hanzo. I love drinking tea. Mother makes sure I drink two cups a day.”

Ana watches as the young Miss Song slips out of the arms of Maria Reyes and runs to stand beside her daughter. She tugs on Fareeha’s pant leg and bounces up and down.

“My turn! My turn! Open our gift Fareeha!” 

“Okay, okay Hana. I will.” 

Hana runs back to Maria, who hands off the gift to the little girl. Hana then passes it on to Fareeha. Hana no doubt wrapped the gift, judging by the overuse of ribbon and yarn to keep it together. Fareeha pulls apart the tissue paper and discovers an indigo colored sweater and matching scarf. 

“My fathers made it! I helped!” 

Fareeha holds the sweater open before her and sees her name embroidered in golden thread on the bottom hem. The stitching isn’t perfect, but it is certainly more than she could ever sew herself. Hana points proudly at it. 

“My dad taught me how! See! I helped!” 

“It looks amazing, Hana. Thank you.” Fareeha pulls her close friend into a hug. “I wish they were here so I could hug them too.” 

“Hugs for who? Us?” 

All eyes turn to the paneled doors of the saloon. There in the doorway stands Jack and Gabriel, with sweat in their hair and dirt on their face from a long two days of work. Before they have a chance to react, a small blur races across the saloon’s expanse to tackle and embrace them. 

“Yay! You both are back home!” Hana says into Gabriel’s stomach as she holds onto both of them. 

Jack lifts her up into his arms and kisses her forehead. Gabriel ruffles her long brown hair. 

“Sorry we’re a bit of a mess, sweetheart,” Gabriel says with a lopsided smile. “We just rode back into town.” 

Maria comes and hugs both Gabriel and Jack, and Gabriel kisses his younger sister’s cheek. 

“It’s good to see you, chica.” 

“Jeez! You both smell really, really bad but that’s okay.” Hana interjects. She wraps her arms around Jack’s neck and squeezes. “I missed you both. I’m glad you’re home.” 

“I’m glad we didn’t miss the party!” Jack says as he carries Hana with him and rejoins the group. “And just in time. Gabriel made that for you with Hana’s help, Fareeha.” 

“Please. You helped too, Jack.” 

“If by helped you mean made sure the cat didn’t play with the needle and thread and kept the dog outside, then sure. I guess I did.” 

“I’m sure you did a great job, Jack,” Ana says with a wink. 

“Thanks Mister Reyes, Mister Morrison. And thank you too, Hana. It means a lot to me.” 

“You’re welcome Fareeha!” Hana cheers. 

Jack lets Hana down in order to step aside with his husband Gabriel to clean up as best as they can in the washroom. 

Once they return, Ana clears her throat and stands beside her daughter. “I think there are three gifts left. Why don’t you we start with the gift your father has for you first.” 

Reinhardt smiles. He digs into his coat pocket and reveals a handkerchief with something inside. He takes his daughter’s hand and places the gift into her hand, then he closes her fingers over it. 

Fareeha pulls the handkerchief apart to see her father’s silver pocket watch. She blinks down in shock. This pocket watch has never left his side. “Father, I… I can’t…” 

“I want you to have it. It is a Wilhelm family heirloom. My father gave it to me, and his grandfather before him.” 

Fareeha runs her fingers over the smooth metal with words engraved in German, her father’s family’s motto: “Let Justice Be Done.” On the underside, Fareeha finds a dent in the metal casing. 

“That came from a bullet. The watch stopped its path, saving my life likely. It is lucky, for had it not protected me, I would have never met your mother, the woman I truly love, and I would have never met you, my little Pharah.” 

Ana swallows thickly; the thought of not having Reinhardt in their lives makes her heart clench in her chest. She can’t imagine her life without him in her and her daughter’s life. She glances down to Fareeha, and sees that daughter remains strong and keeps her composure. If Fareeha can, then Ana can as well. This is the pocketwatch that protected him, then she knows Fareeha will take care of it, always. 

Fareeha smiles and blinks several tears away. “Thank you, Vater.” 

“Of course, mein Schatz.” He bends down and kisses her forehead. “May it serve you as well as it has served me.” 

Ana offers her gift next, a small velvet pouch. “Your father and I both wanted to share something of your ancestors with you, Fareeha. Family is most important, and we wanted you to have something tangible from each of us. Something you can one day pass on as well.” 

Fareeha opens the pouch and pours the contents into her hand. A small emerald scarab pendant falls into her palm on a silver chain. Gold outlines the small shape of the creature. 

“My mother, before she passed on, gave me this gift with the hopes that I would one day give it to you as well. The scarab represents heaven and the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. It reminds us that life is fragile yet beautiful, to be cherished every day.” 

“Thank you, mother.” Fareeha pulls her shoulder-length hair to the side to let her mother clasp the necklace around her neck. Once latched, she holds the scarab in her hand and smiles. “I wish I could have known grandmother.” 

“I wish that every day too. I wish she could have seen what a beautiful woman you are growing up to be.” Ana wipes her daughter’s cheeks. “I know she would be proud of you.” 

Ana remembers her mother. A fine, brilliant woman who taught Ana how to shoot a rifle behind their small home and would bring her inside after a long day of practice to teach her how to brew delicious tea. She had the voice of a songbird but the will of a jackal, and her love knew no bounds. She remembers her long dark hair, the mischief in her eyes, the softness of her palm upon her cheek. Her mother was a healer, a doctor, a pillar of their community. Her mother had helped her deliver Fareeha when no one else was there to help. She wishes her mother could have been there to see Fareeha grow up, to help her along the way where Ana could not, to teach everything her granddaughter would need to know about the old ways and their traditions. At the very least, Neith Amari watches down from the heavens, where she could rest after so long. 

“Ah, now, there is one more gift for you my dear. A very special one.” Ana turns away and nods to Reinhardt, who disappears momentarily into the kitchen. “Now I want you to close your eyes. Do not open until we tell you too.” 

“Okay, mother.” 

Once Ana sees that her daughter has closed her eyes, she whistles once like the chirp of a bird, and Reinhardt comes out once more with the bicycle. Her husband added a bow and a bouquet of wildflowers into the basket. 

“Okay, habibti,” Ana says softly with her hand upon Fareeha’s shoulder. “You can open them now.” 

Fareeha obeys, and her eyes widen when she sees the gift before her. 

“Surprise!” Everyone shouts. “Happy birthday!” 

With a gentle nudge, Ana stirs her daughter from her shock and guides her to the bicycle. Fareeha’s hands touch the metal of the handlebars, her fingers gliding along the chrome, and she’s speechless. 

“We know these are quite popular in the city, and we thought it would be good for you to have one. You can ride it around town once you learn and practice. Your father and Mr. Lindholm have spent several months working on this gift, Fareeha.” 

Fareeha’s incredulous. “You built this yourselves?” 

“Of course!” Reinhardt bellows with a laugh. “I thought we were more than capable, ja, my friend?” 

“It wasn’t hard,” Torbjorn adds. “Once I had a good look at some pictures we found, courtesy of Miss Lacroix, we knew we could put something together. We made up some schematics and got right down to work.” 

“What do you think of it dear? Do you like it?” 

Fareeha stares down at the bike, the shock still evident. She glances away to look at her father and Torbjorn, and she nods eagerly. 

“I love it. I can’t wait to ride it.” 

“You have to practice first, take it slow. We want you to enjoy it but we want you to be safe.”

“Can I ride in the basket, Fareeha?” Hana asks while tugging on her older friend’s dress. 

“You will _not,_ ” Gabriel sighs. “That’s way too dangerous.” 

“Maybe once Fareeha has mastered riding it,” Jack says with a smile, which falls off his face once his husband nudges him in the ribs. “At very slow speeds.” 

Reinhardt grins. “Come, come, we can practice now!” He wheels the bicycle out of the saloon, with Torbjorn, Lena, Amelie, Charles, Fareeha, Hana, and Maria immediately following along. 

As Ana leaves to join them, she notices Jack and Gabriel stop Jesse from coming outside too. Hanzo, Genji, and Angela stay behind. She waits at the door of the saloon, watching them, and she notices the sudden disappearance of mirth. Instead, they wear somber, almost grave expressions. Nothing good. Worry settles in her stomach as heavy as lead. She hears the laughter coming from outside at the same time as the hushed words from Jack. 

_We need to talk, Jesse, right now._

Ana meets Jesse’s gaze, and suddenly his good humor has left him, too. She purses her brows, but he waves her off with a wink and a forced smile. She hesitates at the door, but he nods her way. _Go,_ he mouths to her, _be with your family._ She leaves, but with a heavier heart. Why did that boy always try to keep people at arm’s length? 

Damn him. 

_You are my family. You all are._

x X x 

Hanzo knows it’s bad news even before Jack says another word after he stopped Jesse from leaving with the others. He glances to Jesse, who stands beside him stiff as a plank of wood. He places his hand upon the small of Jesse’s back and guides him to sit down at the nearest table. He pulls up a chair and joins him.

“Mind if I grab us a drink?” Jack asks, and Jesse waves him off. He heads behind the bar and pours a glass for himself, his husband, and for Jesse. 

“What’s wrong?” Angela asks to Gabriel, who leans against one of the tables with a sour expression. “Something is wrong. Tell us.” 

Gabriel looks to Jesse first. “This business regards you, and it isn’t good. I don’t know if you want the rest of them around to hear it.” 

Jesse shrugs. “It’s fine. They can hear whatever it is--suspect they’ll find out one way or another. It’s bad news, but at least the kids are outside playing. At least Fareeha’s having a good birthday. That’s all that matters at this point.” 

Jack rejoins them with three drinks. He hands one to Jesse, who holds it against his knee, and he hands another to Gabriel, who drinks all the whiskey in one quick gulp. Hanzo has learned that Gabriel Reyes doesn’t normally drink his alcohol that fast. Whatever news this is, it’s serious. 

Gabriel sighs. “Then if he doesn’t mind others knowing, just be blunt about it, Jack. No sense to do otherwise.” 

Beside him, Jack nods. He stands up straight, and the man Hanzo looks upon holds himself together like a soldier, like a man who’s prepared to go to war and fight until his last breath. 

“The man the Marshals were looking for showed up today during our scouting ride through the Coachella Valley. Goes by the name of Davy Delisle. These Marshals had been looking for him for months, traveling through four states to catch up with him. He was a wanted man out of Utah, an ex-lieutenant in the Black Talon Gang, and their job was to extradite him back to Utah to be hung. He’s got a long list of crimes under his belt, mostly related to theft of property along the Colorado River. Apparently he’d been spotted in the Mojave, on the border between Nevada and California. 

“They called upon me and Gabriel because we know that desert well. We managed to catch up to him, and we apprehended him outside of Goodsprings. After that, we headed down to the station in Primm, where they planned to shove him onto a prison train bound for Cedar City. He tried to bargain with the Marshals all the way, but they weren’t having any of it. But when we reached Primm, it turned out he had been saving the best of his bargaining chips for last. He blurted out that he had information on the infamous leader of the Deadlock Gang, Jesse McCree, a wanted man out of New Mexico. Delisle said he was rumored to be holing up in a little town out in the Mojave. Twenty-Nine Palms.

“The two marshals we rode with boarded the train to escort Mr. Delisle, but they sent a telegram to the office in San Bernardino. We know the men who work out of that office--they’re veterans of the war, soldiers trained as trackers, who were able to scout ahead for German outposts on the Western front. They were able to find mines embedded into the ground, hunt for snipers.” 

“What Jack’s trying to say is that they take their job seriously, and they will not care if you’ve moved on, they will not care if you’ve found God or Jesus Christ and repented for all of your sins, they won’t care to hear your side of the story whatsoever. They’ll form a posse and they’re coming to this town in a day. The bounty on your fucking head is so huge they won’t care to bring you back to Los Angeles to be tried in court. They’ll arrest you and build their own goddamn gallows and you’ll be swinging before day’s end.”

Silence falls amidst the group. Hanzo places a comforting hand over Jesse’s as he squeezes his knee and grips the glass of whiskey like a crucifix. 

Angela speaks up first, in complete disbelief. “I don’t understand. This Davy Delisle must be confused, surely. Jesse isn’t a wanted man. There must be a mistake. Perhaps he made up a name, perhaps he is someone you knew from when you lived in New Mexico, perhaps--”

“Angela, please,” Jesse murmurs. “It’s true.” 

Angela’s face falls. She blinks at Jesse in complete defeat.

“It’s… It’s a long story,” he sighs.

“Not enough time to tell it, unfortunately,” Gabe remarks with a snicker. 

“What you need to do Jesse is leave town," Jack adds. "I don’t know for how long. For only a couple of days, hopefully. Head out to your safe house and don’t come back until one of us comes out there and gets you. We can’t leave any signs that you’ve been here behind. They have to come here and leave disappointed that the intel from Delisile was false. Do you understand?”

Jesse runs a hand over his face and then drinks all of the whiskey in his glass. He sets it down on the table with a thud and wipes his mouth with the back of his arm. He drums his fingers against his knee and shakes his head. 

“Yeah, I hear you loud and clear, sheriff.” Jesse snorts. “But I’ve got a better idea for you. Maybe it’s pointless trying to run any further, y’know? Been on the run for about two years now. Maybe it’s time to pay up for what I did, and for what I didn’t do. If you both turn me in, well, shit, the money you’d get from the bounty, well it could do a lot of good for this town. You could pay for a new school house for Amelie. You could repair the bell in the church tower, maybe people would pray more if they heard a bell on Sunday morning. You could get tools to dig more wells, hell, maybe you all could just buy yourselves a nice lookin’ villa down in the valley. Ana and Reinhardt could send Fareeha to a nice university.” 

“What are you talking about, Jesse? Why would we turn you in?” Angela asks, dumbfounded. “You are our friend, you’re part of this town--”

“Yeah, and bein’ my friend is a bad fucking idea. If I become any more part of this town, you all are going to burn with me. I’m not about to let that happen. Just listen to me, for once. You could buy yourself some actual medical equipment, the latest they use in those big hospitals, and maybe you could save lives even better than before, you could--”

Gabriel crosses the gap and grabs Jesse by the collar of his shirt and yanks him up out of his chair. He holds Jesse firm, even when the younger man tries to squirm.

“Maldito idiota. Qué pensaría tu madre? Su hermano?”

“Van a querer que pague por lo que he hecho.”

“Así que sólo vas a abandonar todo por lo que has trabajado? Nada de lo que dije te entró en el cráneo tan grueso que tienes? Cuando vengan por ti, van a ser tu juez, jurado y tu ejecutado. Les va a importar un carajo verte colgando por el cuello de esa cuerda. En serio quieres que Fareeha y Hana vean eso? Ya bajale a tu mierda del sacrificio. No eres Isaac, y no vamos a ser tu Abraham. Vas a irte del pueblo de una forma u otra. Te voy a poner mi pistola en la cabeza y te haré caminar hasta el desierto si es necesario.” Gabriel lets go of Jesse, who stands upright and stares at him with wide eyes. He takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his beard. “Nos importas, pinche penden. Quizá escucha una vez en tu vida.” 

Hanzo has no idea what they said, but it must have been enough to sober Jesse to the reality of his situation and to stop hurting them with his own self-admonishment. It does pain Hanzo to hear the person he has come to care for speak in such a way. 

“Listen, Jesse,” he starts, his voice as calm and as even as possible to help settle Jesse’s nerves. “You will leave town, but I will come with you. You will take me to this safehouse of yours and we will wait for word that it’s safe to return. You need to trust Jack and Gabriel. You are not part of Deadlock anymore. I know you have tried every day to atone for what you did in the past, you told me you have. Though Genji and I have only been here in this town for a few months, I know the people here need you.” 

“Hanzo, I… I can’t just drag you all further into this. If you do this, you’re guilty. You’re just as guilty as me. Don’t you get it? You’ll be guilty by association. You’ll be guilty for hindering the manhunt.”

“I will not continue to repeat myself Jesse McCree. If you swing, then I swing.” 

Hanzo makes sure to leave no room for doubt. He speaks with more conviction and more certainty than ever before in his life. He sees Genji watching them, his hand gripping Angela’s so tightly, and surely her breath must be taken away. His brother swallows thickly, and then he steps forward. 

“Listen, Jesse. I could manage your saloon while you both are away. When these men come, I can tell them that this is my saloon. I am more than capable of handling this place in your stead. I will make it believable. They will never know the wiser--and if they don’t, then I will join you and my brother at the gallows.” 

Hanzo admires his brother’s bravery, and his expression of honor. How Genji has grown in the months since they left Japan. Genji has no idea what happened in Jesse’s past, but he doesn’t care. He stands firmly beside his friend. It’s admirable. Hanzo has never felt more proud for his younger brother. 

...But that admiration only extends so far to Hanzo. He would _never_ let his brother make that kind of sacrifice, no matter how noble. He would ensure it as his dying wish that Genji never implicates himself in these manners. He loves his brother too much to see him die like that. He knows Angela would never be able to move on from that death. 

“Think of it as you and I finally making good on our bet to one another,” Hanzo says softly while staring into Jesse’s brown eyes. “You promised me you would show me the secrets of this Mojave. You said you would take me to those hot springs. Now, we have the opportunity to do just that. I hope you hadn’t forgotten our bet, I did aim to collect, after all.”

Jesse remains silent for several minutes. He looks down at his hands, closes his eyes, and then takes a deep breath. 

“It just ain’t fair.”

“Nothing in life ever really is, Jesse,” Gabriel says. “If you want something, you have to work for it. If you want to keep living here, if you want to keep making other people happy, if you want to do right by the people you wronged years ago, you’re going to man up right here, right now, and you’re going to listen. Your friends are here to help you. Jack and I didn’t fish you out of the desert on the brink of death just for you to throw everything away overnight.” 

“I… I don’t know...” 

“Jesse…” Angela pleads, “Please. Let us help you.” 

Jesse turns to look away, but Hanzo places his hand on Jesse’s shoulder to help steady him. “Fine,” he huffs. “God damn. I hate how stubborn you all are.”

“It’s our finest quality,” Jack says with a laugh and a hopeful smile. “I even think it’s starting to rub off onto Angela.” 

“You kidding me?” Gabriel snorts. “She’s the worst by far once she’s got you under her scalpel.” 

Before Angela can retort, Ana and Reinhardt step back into the saloon and rejoin the group. 

Jesse’s frown lines only seem to grow longer. “Shouldn’t you both be looking after your daughter? It’s her birthday, after all. Sweet sixteen, it’s a damn big deal.” 

“The others are watching after her and Hana,” Reinhardt explains. “They are quite happy outside playing, and they should play.” 

Ana, however, dodges Jesse’s line of inquiry. “Were you planning on including us in what’s going on, or are we to guess until we’re correct?” 

Jack beckons them to take a seat. “Pull up a chair. It’s bad news. We don’t have much time to explain the details, and we have a long night of planning ahead of us...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't manage to get syntax for hover text to work right for whatever reason, but here is the translation for the Spanish conversation between Jesse and Gabriel there at the end in English (thank you Fan from the Reaper 76 discord!):
> 
> "Fucking Idiot. What would your mother think? Your brother?"
> 
> "They would want me to pay for what I've done." 
> 
> "So you're just going to throw away everything you've worked for? Did none of what I said get through your thick skull? When they come for you, they will be your judge, jury, and your executioner. They won't give a damn who sees you swing from that hangman's noose. You really want Fareeha and Hana to see that? Cut the self-sacrificing shit. You're not Isaac, and we're not going to be your Abraham. You're leaving town one way or another. I'll put my shotgun to your head and walk you out into the desert if I have to." Gabriel lets go of Jesse, who stands upright and stares at him with wide eyes. He takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his beard. "We care about you, you fucking asshole. Maybe listen for once in your life."
> 
> x X x
> 
> [We had the lovely Zee draw us a picture of the chapter 12 scene between Genji and Angela, their first kiss. Thank you very much Zee for your hard work!!](http://zeearts.tumblr.com/post/153992450175/commission-from-bamfbugboy-of-a-gency-moment-from)
> 
> There are now other Petals affiliated pieces in this collection, written by us authors as well as CaptainCorgi, who gifted us with the novelized/au of an au fic version of _Young Bucks_. You can find the links for them at the end of this work. 
> 
> Let us know what you think of the town's predicament.


	18. Raise Your Heavy Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two days after Jack and Gabriel returned with bad news for Jesse McCree, the town of Twenty Nine Palms must answer to the laws of the land in his stead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double feature! Sorta. We hope you all enjoy this chapter!

The High Noon Saloon has never been more quiet than today. Even on the most solemn of days, mirth still found its way into the hearts of the townspeople of Twenty Nine Palms. The absence of Jesse McCree leaves its mark on the town, but today of all days they must somehow manage without the raucous cowboy who made them all smile and laugh. Today they have to pretend that Jesse McCree has never stepped foot into town and that he’s never been a part of their lives. They have to pretend instead that one of their close friends is a wanted man, a criminal who deserves the hangman’s noose. 

Angela’s gaze remains fixated upon the two wooden paneled doors of the saloon. Any minute now Jack and Gabriel will push past the panels and inform them of the arrival of two members of law enforcement. They’ll sit down at the bar and Genji will serve them a drink. Ana and Reinhardt will sit together in their usual booth and enjoy a meal despite not having an actual appetite. Lena and Amelie will relax in the corner booth, enjoying each others company like young lovers too oblivious of the rest of the world to have heard about a no-good scoundrel by the name of Jesse McCree. 

Angela herself doesn’t know what to do. Everyone else insisted that if she wasn’t comfortable participating in today’s grand play, that they all would understand. They could have said their local town doctor was unavailable, in the midst of a serious surgery upon a patient, but she couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Adversity was said to make people stronger. Her mother and father never stood by in the face of injustice and turned a blind eye. She wants to do right, she wants to do all that she can to help protect Jesse, but she has a hard time stifling her own nerves. By doing this, by lying to these marshals, they all are at risk. 

Angela doesn’t want her friends to die. 

Soon, the marshals will step inside and begin to interrogate each of them about the whereabouts of Jesse McCree, the so-called leader of the infamous Deadlock Gang out of New Mexico. The thought of Jesse leading a gang of thugs, bullies, and tyrants leaves Angela feeling sick. It’s a lie, Jesse explained the night of Fareeha’s birthday party, he had never taken control over the gang when he ran with them. He had less than a day to explain himself before the marshals rode into town. 

A hand touches her shoulder, and Angela yelps and jumps out of her chair. 

“ _Angela_.” 

She sharply turns her head and sees Genji standing behind her with a frown upon his face. He steadies her with another hand, and he reaches up to cup her chin. 

“Angela you’re trembling.” 

She swallows hard and closes her eyes. She runs a hand through her hair and nods. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m trying, Genji. You just scared me.” 

“Staring at the door waiting for Jack and Gabriel isn’t going to summon them here.” His thumb traces along the curve of her jaw, and his contemplative gaze sees through her attempts at bravery. “Listen, please. I really think you should go back to your home and wait this out. You don’t need to do this. You have already helped Jesse and Hanzo by giving them some of your supplies for their trip. I promised Jesse I would look out for you, and I really think you should--”

“Genji, no. Please.” Angela shakes her head. “I have to do this,” she tries her best to keep her voice steady, “I may be scared, but I have to help.” 

He hesitates. He studies her in silence and then sighs. He wraps his arm around her and presses his forehead against hers. “Take a deep breath. Slowly.” He pauses. “Now, do it again, hold it for five seconds. Good. Now exhale.”

After repeating the process several times, Angela’s nerves do begin to ebb. She lays her head against his shoulder. She no longer feels on edge, and her heart has stopped racing. 

Genji threads his hand through her pony-tail and caresses her, murmuring the few comforting phrases she has come to learn in the last twenty-four hours. _Daijoubu; it’s okay. Gowagaranai de; don’t be afraid. Zutto soba ni iru kara; I will be by your side forever._ She wishes that the marshals would never come, that this nightmare would end, that they would wake up and everyone would be together and safe again. 

The paneled doors swing open, and two pairs of spurs click against the wooden floor of the saloon. 

“It’s time,” Jack says before taking off his hat and hanging it on the hook near the entrance. “We saw them riding in on the horizon. Four men on horses, and they were armed. Two had shotguns, one had a pair of pistols on his hips, and the fourth had a rifle.”

“We recognized the two marshals, and we saw badges on both of the other men.” Gabriel hangs his hat besides Jack’s. 

“Deputized bounty hunters, probably.” 

“Well, this is bad news, but it is less grave than it could have been,” Ana says over her cup of tea. She glances across the saloon hall to Angela. “Be strong, Angela. Your mother and father would be very proud of you for helping others. Hold onto that thought.” 

Angela nods despite her heart clenching in her chest. “I… I’ll try--I mean, I’ll do my best.” 

Jack and Gabriel move to sit at the bar. Ana returns to talking quietly with Reinhardt, their hands joined across the table. Lena and Amelie move closer to one another, with Lena’s arm wrapped around Amelie’s shoulder and Amelie leaning close, murmuring in softly spoken French.

Angela looks to each of her friends and then down at her hands in defeat. Even though it’s a charade, she can’t help but feel guilty. How could they even pretend that everything's alright, when nothing truly is? 

“Angela,” Genji whispers, “I promise everything will be okay. Trust us and yourself. My brother will take good care of Jesse in the desert. No one but myself will be able to find them.” 

She turns her head to stare into his brown eyes. He offers her a small, hopeful smile. He closes his eyes and kisses her upon the lips. She leans into it, seeking his warmth. Then, faster than she would have liked, it’s over, finished too soon.

“For good luck,” he says while caressing her neck. “Read the book I gave you and relax. Only speak to the marshals if they talk to you. Otherwise, keep your head down. We will make it through this, alright?” 

Genji pats her shoulder and then heads behind the bar to pour a cup of coffee for Jack and Gabriel. They made sure to hide any and all alcohol in the cellar of Ana’s general store. 

Angela can’t speak else she fears the spell will be broken. She takes another deep breath and then sits down at her table. She digs into her small satchel and retrieves the book Genji bought for her earlier in the week when he, Hanzo, and Ana went into the valley. Her fingers trace the stylized script of the title. _The Curse of the Crested Eagle._ Weeks ago her and Genji read the first novel in the series. Everything seemed so simple, then. Idyllic, compared to the past day. All she wants to do is read this novel with Genji and curl up together without a care in the world. 

_We just have to make it through tomorrow,_ he said to her last night. _Start reading the book, I’ll catch up._

Angela looks once more to the door of the saloon and takes another deep breath. She tries to soften her expression, to make herself appear as relaxed as possible, as if she’s deeply immersed in the text. She opens the book, cracks the spine, and starts on the first page of the prologue. 

_The soft moonlight shone brightly through the aspen trees illuminating Holly’s auburn hair. As Renn stared at her he couldn’t help but wish things had been different between them. He wished that he could have saved her father from the rustlers that had almost taken over the ranch and the southern herds…_

x X x

The paneled saloon doors open, and the heavy footfalls of four men make the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

Angela doesn’t dare look up. 

_Keep your head down. Keep your head down. Don’t look up at them. Don’t meet their gaze. Only speak when spoken to. Don’t say a word unless spoken to. Don’t look up. Don’t…_

Against her judgment, against the panicked voice screaming in her thoughts telling her not to, Angela looks up to see four strangers from the valley. 

Two men wear large golden badges upon their coats, with the words U.S. Marshal engraved onto them. The taller marshal has brown hair and grey eyes. He has a long scar across his cheek and russet brown skin. He carries a shotgun slung across his back and wears a grey slimmer stetson. The shorter, more muscular man beside him wears a wide-brimmed hat and hooks his fingers through his belt loops. His pale face is sunburned, and his brows are pursed. Two pistols sit at his hips. 

“Hello! Welcome to the High Noon Saloon. Finest watering hole in the whole Mojave,” Genji says. “Take a seat. Is there anything I can get you both?” 

The taller marshal un-pins his badge and holds it up. “Benjamin Alverez, U.S. Marshal.”

“Perry Mason,” the other marshal adds. 

“We’re looking for Sheriff Morrison. Is he here?”

Jack slides off the barstool and comes to meet the two marshals. He shakes their hands and then stands at attention, as if he’s speaking to a commanding officer. 

“Jack Morrison. I’m the sheriff of Twenty Nine Palms.” He half-turns and gestures to Gabriel. “My deputy, Gabriel Reyes. We received word from Marshals Jacobs and Peterson out of Las Vegas that you both would be giving us a visit after Davy Delisle made his plea deal. Unfortunately, like we told the two of them, we’ve never had a man by the name of Jesse McCree come through our town. It’s extremely rare to see Deadlock in the Mojave--we haven’t seen any activity since we moved here.” 

“They told us that, but we figured since we’re in the area, we’d come on down and take a look ourselves,” Mason grunts. “Jesse McCree is a dangerous, violent man wanted in three states alone. We take our jobs seriously.”

Gabriel rests his hands on his hips. “Of course, sir. Sheriff Morrison and I have heard about your work in the valley. We know you and yours have been working to keep the county safe.” 

Jack puts on his best smile. “It’s an honor having you check in on us.” 

Marshal Alverez nods. “We’re just doing our jobs. Nothing more.”

“Spoken like a fellow soldier. Peterson and Jacobs mentioned you both served at the Marne in the 42nd Division. Reyes and I served in the 77th.” 

The two marshals nod, but do not go down the path of discussing the war. Their stoic expressions remind Angela of the warning Gabriel gave when he and Jack first shared the news--these two marshals are known for taking the law seriously and bringing wanted men to justice. Nothing more.

“Actually, Reyes I think I remember hearing that name in our trench. Perry Mason from Oregon? We heard you were a great shot. Preferred those two guns of yours instead of anything standard issue.”

Angela notices Marshal Mason’s blank expression crack. The man smirks. 

“Yeah. A rifle wasn’t personal enough for the Germans.”

Alvarez clears his throat. “Davy Delisle,” he says, steering the conversation back to Jesse, “in his follow-up report, stated that Jesse McCree was seen in this very establishment.” He glances to Genji and steps up to the counter. “Are you the owner of this saloon?”

“Yes, sir. Genji Hayashi.” A fake last name. “Could I offer you both a cup of coffee?”

“No thank you,” Alverez says while leaning against the counter. “We have some questions for you.” He digs into his coat pocket and reveals the wanted poster that everyone saw the night of Fareeha’s birthday party, shown to them by Hanzo. “Have you ever seen this man enter your saloon?” 

“I’m sorry, sir, but never. I try to remember every face that comes through.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I make a habit of getting to know my customers. It’s good for business. If I had ever seen this man before, I know I would have remembered him. Unfortunately, I have never seen him before.” 

“Do you mind if my associate takes a look behind the counter and in your kitchen?”

“Of course, by all means.”

Mason walks behind the counter, and Angela knows he will find nothing criminal there. He certainly won’t find Jesse McCree. He disappears into the kitchen and comes out several silent moments later with a single bottle of wine. They did plant one bottle of alcohol, a diversion for the two marshals to find in the kitchen.

“Mr. Hayashi, are you aware prohibition is the law of the land?” 

Genji laughs nervously and scratches the back of his neck. To Angela, he really is a natural when it comes to acting. He had insisted to Hanzo that staying behind and managing the saloon would be the best way for him to help. Jesse has nothing to worry about.

“Ah, well yes, of course I do. But, you see, this is actually a gift I have had for several months now. It’s for the couple sitting at the table near the window.” The two marshals turn and look to Ana and Reinhardt, who are busy in their own conversation. “The circumstances are special. Their anniversary is coming up, and I think a happily married couple deserves to celebrate, no?”

Alverez looks away from Ana and Reinhardt and returns his attention to Genji. “Don’t make it a habit, or I will place charges and ensure your saloon closes.”

“Of course, sir, I completely understand. I wouldn’t think of it.”

“We’re going to ask your patrons here a few questions. Brew up some fresh coffee.” 

Mason sets down the bottle of wine and then hooks his fingers into the loops of his belt. He walks over to the table where Ana and Reinhardt continue to talk to one another. He clears his throat, effectively ending their conversation, and the older couple turns to address him. 

Angela swallows hard. She tries to return to her book, but finds it more and more difficult to read past a single sentence, let alone one word alone. She holds the edge of her book in a vice grip, her fingers trembling against the paper. 

“Have either of you seen this man? Goes by the name of Jesse McCree. Was reported to be seen around here.”

“Unfortunately, I have never seen this man before,” Ana explains. “Otherwise, I would greatly wish to see him brought to justice.”

“Ah, ja, my wife is correct. We have never seen this man, but if we did, we would have reported him. There are young children in this town, we would not want them to be hurt by this man, if he is as dangerous as you say.” 

Angela looks up from her book, briefly, amidst the silence that follows. Marshal Mason stands with his arms folded across his chest. 

“I assure you. Jesse McCree is dangerous, make no mistake.” Mason’s hand falls to one of his holsters, and he unsnaps the clasp while staring directly at Reinhardt. “Anyone caught withholding information will be charged guilty as well and will be swiftly dealt with.” 

Reinhardt purses his brows. “We have nothing to hide. My wife and I are simple people.”

“We’ll see,” Alvarez says. “My partner and I are doing a thorough investigation, and we intend to find Jesse McCree one way or another.” 

“As we have already told you, we do not--”

Mason snorts. “Did you fight in the war, Mister…?”

“Wilhelm. Reinhardt Wilhelm.” 

“Right.” Mason shakes his head. “Of course you wouldn’t understand the severity of this situation, with you being one of _them_.” 

“Excuse me?” Ana interjects as she sets her cup of tea down. “What are you trying to insinuate about my husband? What does this have to do with--”

“Ma’am, I think it’s clear as day. Your husband doesn’t know anything about the duty our brave men and women carried over in Europe. Jesse McCree dodged the draft, and he has been known to work with criminals, fugitives, and plenty of undesirable, unsavory folks. He has stolen from the U.S. Government. Weapons, explosives. Now, I don’t think I need to explain just how serious of a crime this is, and it desecrates the sacrifices our soldiers made to let some thug run rampant at home with the property of the government. Leads me to wondering if perhaps our German friend here could be harboring information about the man himself.” 

“That’s nonsense. If this Jesse McCree is as much of a criminal as you say, I would never--” 

“Why wouldn’t you? Germany lost the war, I wouldn’t be surprised if you wanted to exact a little revenge where you could.”

Before Ana or Reinhardt can respond, Sheriff Morrison steps between them with a sheepish smile and his arms spread, keeping distance between the four. 

“Now wait a second, please, as Sheriff I think I know a thing or two about the people in my town. Reinhardt Wilhelm is a good, honest man, a fine part of this community. As someone who fought in that war himself, who saw just as much violence and destruction as you or I, Reinhardt knows what the war was like. I think we can all agree that it’s over and done and that we should all just move on. Reinhardt served his country no differently than us.” 

Angela wishes that Ana or Reinhardt himself could prove his innocence by explaining his story, but she imagines that these marshals wouldn’t care to hear it. Reinhardt not only served his country but he loved it enough to know when to stand up for what was right. He defected because of his own moral values, but he never stopped loving his home. He loved his home enough to give over information that would help bring the war to an end faster, perhaps saving lives on either side. 

She looks at the expressions of the two marshals, and the two men do not budge despite Jack’s attempt at extending an olive branch. Their scowls remain, their distrust laid out so clearly, that she cannot help but hurt for Reinhardt and Ana. No, these men would never be able to understand Reinhardt’s story. 

“Reinhardt is a good man,” Gabriel says coolly, coming to Jack’s side, “I think you need to move on with your interrogation. They said they don’t know who or where he is, leave it at that.”

The two marshals move on after doing their best to further intimidate Reinhardt and Ana with harsh glares and scowls. They speak with Amelie and Lena next, and Angela can barely focus on their dialogue, let alone her book any further. The words blur on the page before her like spilled ink, and her throat grows dry. One of her hands starts to shake, and when she realizes, she pulls it into her chest and tries to force her racing heart to slow. 

She glances over her shoulder as subtly as possible and sees the two marshals making no ground on their investigation. Lena and Amelie play the perfect pair of oblivious lovebirds, and the two men become further irritated. They cross their arms and shake their heads, and as they turn to walk away, Angela quickly returns her attention back to her book with wide eyes. 

Their heavy footfalls sound over the thudding of her heart in her ears. She’s next. They’re walking towards her table. She licks her lips, takes a deep breath, and does her best to calm down. Her palms grow clammy. Her thoughts race in German, no longer in English. She blinks in panic and realizes there are tears forming in her eyes. Will she even be able to speak in English? Does she even remember how?

_Breathe. Calm down. Stop trembling._

The two marshals stop in front of her table, and Angela can’t move. She tries to appear as if she’s engrossed in her book, and she hears one of the men clear his throat. She swallows thickly and looks up slowly.

The men narrow their gaze.

“Miss, is there a problem here?” 

“What? No! Of course not!”

“You look as if you’ve been crying.” Alvarez digs into his coat pocket and retrieves a handkerchief. 

Angela takes it and wipes at her eyes. 

“I…”

She feels a hand upon her shoulder, and she turns her head and sees Genji standing behind her with a comforting, sympathetic smile. 

“I see you got to that part of the book, Angela.” 

“Oh, well,” she takes a deep but shaky breath. She can’t flinch. She must not hesitate. Every minute expression of hers falls under the microscope. “Yes, yes I did. I’m sorry, officers, I have just been so engrossed in this book, you see.” She closes it and offers it to Marshal Mason, who raises a brow once he looks down at the cover. 

He hands it back to her and tips his hat down to her. “That’s fine, ma’am. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, now that we have your attention?” 

“Y-yes, of course.” Angela folds her hands against the closed book. “Anything I can do to help.”

Alvarez glances to Genji. “The coffee, if you wouldn’t mind? Black, please.” 

“Ah, yes, certainly.” 

Angela watches Genji walk away. She curls her fingers and her nails dig into her palm. She slowly turns her head back to the two marshals who stand in front of her table, towering over her. 

Alvarez slides the wanted poster across the table. “We are investigating a lead we were given by a man taken into custody two days ago regarding Jesse McCree, leader of the Deadlock Gang. He is a wanted man, miss, and we would like to see him brought to justice before he harms anyone else.” 

Angela stares down at the drawing of Jesse on the wanted poster. He looks younger in the portrait, with harder eyes, less facial hair, and a scowl she’s never seen upon his face. The picture bears a scar on his forehead, one he does not have in real life.

RINGLEADER OF THE INFAMOUS DEADLOCK GANG  
FOR TRAIN ROBBERY, ARSON, MURDER, FORGERY, AND IMPERSONATION OF US MARSHALS…

Jesse explained some of the details about his time with Deadlock. Somehow everyone but her (and Genji) seemed to have some degree of knowledge about his past despite knowing him for the past two years. She knew he had left New Mexico, she knew he had a brother who died in the war, but she never knew that his brother’s death had hurt him so deeply that he had gone down the road of self-destruction. He confessed to committing many of the heinous crimes listed on the poster, including the murder of innocent people, but he made clear that he never committed arson and he had never lead the gang.

$55,000 REWARD.  
DEAD OR ALIVE.

The thought of her and her friends turning Jesse in for money, no matter how much, makes her sick to her stomach. Regardless of what Jesse has done, she knows he is a good man, no matter what these marshals say. Jack and Gabriel saved Jesse’s life before she even knew him, and she knows they wouldn’t have helped him had they not seen something good in him. Hanzo even told her and Genji, quietly, that Jesse was trying his best to make amends for his crimes.

_Through honorable acts, he seeks redemption. Atonement._

“Miss? Hello?”

Angela steels her gaze. She looks away from the poster and shakes her head. “No. I have never seen this man before in my life.”

“Are you sure, miss? Please take a good, long look.”

“I have looked, and I can tell you that I would remember a man with a scar like that.” 

Alvarez sighs. Mason snatches up the wanted poster and curses under his breath. Genji returns to the table with two cups of coffee. The two marshals take a drink, but before they can continue their investigation, Angela cuts them off. 

“However, in early July and in late September, members of the Los Muertos gang passed through town and injured some of the citizens here. I know because as the town doctor, I had to tend to their wounds.” She glares. “Perhaps instead of chasing down a mystery man rumored to be seen in this area, you could chase down men who have been seen by _multiple_ witnesses in this area.”

“Miss, the county sheriff handles the local riff-raff. Our job is to find Jesse McCree and bring him to justice.” 

“Los Muertos has caused more trouble for us than this ‘Jesse McCree’, but please, by all means, continue hunting down a ghost.” 

Genji tries to cut her off, “Angela, I--” 

“The next time an innocent person is killed by a member of the Los Muertos gang, I will be sure to send the body to your morgue at the county office so your coroner may perform the autopsy himself. I’m sure the prognosis will be clear: when honest men do nothing, innocent people die.” 

Silence falls over the saloon. Everyone holds their breath, and suddenly in that moment, Angela worries that perhaps she went too far. 

Marshal Mason’s red, sunburned face grows darker in embarrassment. He slams his mug down onto the table, rocking it, and then stands up straight. He huffs at her like a bull preparing to charge. Alvarez puts a hand in his shoulder to calm him down.

“The next time you spot Los Muertos gang members in your area,” Alvarez says calmly, “call our office and we will send a deputy over. They will do what your sheriff seems to be struggling with.”

“See to it that you do. I am tired of pulling bullets out of my friends.”

“Do you see this town being overrun with Los Muertos? Jack’s doing the best he can.”

Angela sighs. “No single person can be everywhere at once, Gabriel.”

“It’s fine, miss. It’s no trouble. Our deputies in the valley are trained and experienced to handle outlaws. Like I said, if that gang gives you trouble again, call our office and they’ll be on the next train.”

Jack clears his throat and steps forward again. “I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help. As Angela said, our biggest trouble has been Los Muertos activity in the Mojave. So far we’ve been managing well enough, at least I thought so, but we’ll try to do better.”

“We’re going to hang up this wanted poster here. If any of your customers have any information, Mister Hayashi, tell them to call our office immediately.” 

“Of course,” Genji says with a confident smile. “Anything that will help bring this infamous Jesse McCree to justice.” 

They hang the poster behind the bar, and all eyes fall upon the haunting sign once the marshals step away. It isn’t right, having it there. This is Jesse’s home, and the saloon is the place where they have all come together every night to break bread and enjoy each other’s company. Jesse McCree has always been the one thing bringing them together. Music, dancing, laughter. Good food, good jokes. The saloon has always served as their sacred space, their oasis in the desert, and to see the sign hanging there, where Jesse should be… 

“Is there a place where we can stay for a few days? We’re going to talk with some of the other townspeople, and we need time to complete our investigation.” 

“You can stay at Miss Oxton’s inn,” Jack suggests. “Do you have any rooms available, Lena?”

Lena pulls away from Amelie, and they both slide out of their booth to join the group. She fixes her short, messy hair and puts on her best smile for the lawmen. 

“Of course. I always do! Best place to stay in all of the Mojave, my inn! Come on, let’s help you boys settle in.” 

Lena beckons for the marshals to follow, but the smile she bears is faked, forced. The chirp in her voice rings hollow upon Angela’s ears. Amelie holds her arms against her chest, closed off, and she appears smaller. She mutters in French to Lena, and it’s clear enough for Angela to make out: _Be careful._

The two marshals leave with the saloon with their posse, their guns, and their suspicion. The saloon’s occupants breathe a collective sigh of relief once the men are outside, but the damage is done. 

Jack and Gabriel leave, too, but they look to Angela with somber expressions upon their faces. Angela feels bad for what she said. She knows they work hard, she knows they have sacrificed so much to try to keep them all safe. But her words still ring the same. She wants the violence to stop. She wants Los Muertos to never hurt one of her friends again. 

Ana and Reinhardt stand and bring their dishes to the counter. Reinhardt holds Ana’s hand tight, and he looks haunted. No doubt the marshal’s cruel words have left their mark upon his heart. Ana doesn’t look happy, either, and she can easily guess why. She knows they have argued in the past about Reinhardt’s self-admonishing nature. No doubt they’ll argue over whether or not he should have stood up for himself. 

When only Angela and Genji remain in the saloon, Genji comes to her side and wraps his arm around her waist. He holds her close and she mutters an apology to him. 

“You have nothing to apologize for, Angela.”

“I do. I should have--” 

“It’s done. We did what we needed to do. You were very brave. What matters is that my brother and Jesse are safe out in the desert. That’s all that matters.” He interlaces his hand with hers. “Let me close up here and then we can talk.” 

Angela lays her head against his shoulder and nods. His arms feel safe. She doesn’t know if she could have done this without Genji. She holds him tight, needing his warmth, and he rubs her back gently. He whispers to her in Japanese, words and phrases he hasn’t yet taught her, but they help her relax. She recalls simpler times in this saloon where she and Genji danced together, laughed together, and began to fall in love together. She wishes everything would fall back into place as it was before. She wishes Jesse and Hanzo could come back home where they belong. 

Until that moment comes, at least they have each other. Angela closes her eyes, and for a moment the world and her worries fade away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh. The situation in Twenty Nine Palms isn't looking good. Till next time! 
> 
> Thank you for reading! A big thank you to Zee on the Emergenji Discord for inquiring with a friend for the Japanese phrases mentioned in this chapter.


	19. Constellations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being on the run since their departure from the safety of Twenty Nine Palms, Hanzo reflects on their time traveling through the Mojave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the warnings tagged to this story. Thank you for tuning in. We hope you enjoy this chapter!!

Hanzo closes the book and leans back against the boulder. He runs a hand over his scruffy chin and sighs. The cover stares back at him, an ever-present reminder of the book's lewd contents. Despite his initial hesitation to read the novel, he enjoyed it thoroughly. The writing was well done, and the character's were well-rounded and more than just objects of desire to a reader. Michael Luck reminded him of Jesse in many ways. A man on the run, torn between right, wrong, and the grey in between. A man who chose to atone for his past wrongdoings. Hanzo can see why Jesse recommended the book, and, for different reasons, why Genji did as well. 

Being out in the desert has left time for Hanzo's thoughts to scatter in different directions. Yes, he worries about his brother and the others in Twenty Nine Palms. No doubt the lawmen have arrived, and Hanzo imagines they will be quite unhappy to discover that the information about Jesse McCree's whereabouts led to a dead end. They have made sure to cover their tracks while they ride through the Mojave Desert on their way to the hot springs Jesse alluded to months ago. 

It's been three days since Hanzo and Jesse left Twenty Nine Palms. They departed the morning the marshals were expected to arrive, taking with them two week's worth of supplies, their weapons, and two horses. Jesse rode his beautiful chestnut colored mare Wildfire, while Hanzo rode a palomino horse borrowed from Gabriel's ranch. Hana was sad to see the horse go along with them, but Hanzo had reassured her with a smile that he would take good care of her friend. 

A coyote howls in the distance to the full moon and then near silence falls over the desert. The sound of the crackling campfire and his own even breathing fills the air. 

The Mojave has surprised him in more ways than he expected. Despite the circumstances, Hanzo has never felt more relaxed. The quiet brings blissful peace he has not experienced in years. The stillness, the hidden beauty. He lost the bet he made with Jesse quite early on, even if he hasn't yet admitted it aloud. He takes too much pleasure in teasing the cowboy to give in just yet.

Hanzo learned of Jesse's affinity for natural history while traveling. Though not native to California, Jesse knows this land well, and he knows its secrets. He loves the Mojave. As Jesse led the way through the desert, Hanzo found himself falling not only in love with the land he once found so foreign, so barren, so absent of life. He also found himself falling for Jesse McCree. 

Jesse taught Hanzo the names of the cacti they came across along the way such as the tall saguaro, with its large thorny arms, and the oblong barrel cactus. They ate pricklypear cactus once, and Hanzo never expected to enjoy its taste on looks alone. Jesse shared the names of the colorful flowers they saw nestled between dirt and rocks like the ajo lily, the desert rockpea, the prickly poppy, and the monkeyflower. They saw Joshua Trees and the fan palms that Genji had wanted to see when they arrived into town on that first day. Jesse even explained the taxonomy of some of the species. 

The night sky above glitters with stars, and the Milky Way bisects the endless dark expanse. An hour ago Hanzo watched the sun set on the western horizon. Though he has seen the Californian sunset many times since his arrival to America, there is nothing more thrilling than to watch the sun fall behind silhouetted mountain ridges, the blue sky fade into shades of orange, pink, purple, and white, and the way the dimming light plays on Jesse McCree's features. 

"Hanzo." 

Hanzo tears his attention away from the night sky and sees Jesse standing above him, having returned from collecting water from the small well they found. 

Jesse smiles and pulls off his beige serape. He drapes it around Hanzo's shoulders and then slumps down beside him in front of the fire with a thud. He offers his canteen to Hanzo, who greedily drinks his fill of cold water. 

Riding all day in the desert did leave him thirsty. He didn't mind the heat, they took breaks throughout the day, where they rested in the shade of tall saguaro or found a rocky alcove. Then, in the evening, they would make camp like tonight. The evening always came as a relief, but the chill requires a blanket. 

Hanzo lowers the canteen from his lips, sighs, and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Thank you." 

Hanzo returns the drink to Jesse, and their fingers brush against each others. Jesse takes a quick gulp.

"So I see you finished the book," Jesse says once the canteen's cap is screwed back on. 

"Yes… I-I did finish it." 

"So, what'd you think?" Jesse asks while fishing through his napsack for the bundle of jerky Ana made for them. "Did you like it?" 

Hanzo shrugs. "I found it... _interesting_ once the plot picked up." 

"Right. The plot. Sure." Jesse winks. He hands Hanzo some jerky pieces and then retrieves the bottle of whiskey they've been sharing for the past few days. 

Hanzo bites into the tough, spiced meat. They eat in silence, passing the bottle back and forth until they both finish their light dinner.

"Yeah, I liked the story a lot, too," Jesse says several minutes later. He glances at Hanzo and his eyes wander up and down his lithe body. "Glad to hear you found it interesting." 

The way the words roll off of Jesse's tongue sends a shiver down his spine. There's an implication behind those words. They both read the same book after all. Hanzo did find the plot interesting, but he also enjoyed the romance even if he’ll never admit it aloud. He found himself vicariously living through the experiences of the characters. He even read the explicit chapter word for word, and it was an... eye-opening experience. A scene that reminded him of the several kisses they shared nights ago. 

Hanzo feels warm in his kyudo-gi. It's partially a result of the little bit of liquor, but it's mostly thanks to Jesse's fixed gaze upon him. He turns his head away to hide the rush of color to his cheeks. He wants what Michael Luck and John Tanner shared in the novel, but Jesse doesn't know just how inexperienced he really is when it comes to romantic relations. 

"You know you don't have to feel ashamed for not knowing. There's nothing wrong with that." 

Hanzo's head sharply turns to see Jesse with a small smile upon his face. His heartbeat starts to quicken and it thuds in his chest. He swallows thickly. 

"I-I don't know what you're talking about. I am not ashamed of anything. I--" 

"Hanzo." 

Hanzo shivers at the way Jesse says his name. Damn that cowboy and his silver tongue. There’s no way around this conversation, no matter how much the thought of discussing this topic makes him squirm.

"I know you've never been with a man, let alone anyone. There's nothing wrong with that. You don't need to be nervous around me." 

Hanzo scoffs. "And how did you come to that wild assumption?" 

"C'mon darlin'. There's no need to be stubborn. I just knew early on. Some things don't need to be said." 

"Did my brother tell you?" Hanzo asks, half-accusing, half-hoping Genji did. 

Jesse pauses, as if he's chewing on a thought. "I didn't need your brother to say anything, cross my heart--and he didn't. I just knew from the way you trembled in my arms, sweetheart, when you and me first kissed. It was your first kiss. I knew it was. Simple as that." He tugs on the large serape and pulls it over his shoulders, too. He nudges Hanzo playfully in the ribs. "I want you to know you can talk to me about anything." The light from the fire accentuates the heat blossoming in Jesse’s face. "Y'know... if you’ve got questions....”

Hanzo swallows the lump in his throat. He runs a hand over his hair and then nods. His gaze shifts to the fire, his heart heavy, and his thoughts race. What’s he to say to that?

“But listen, Hanzo. Take things at your own pace, y’know? Ain’t no rush for this.”

“Th-Thank you, Jesse. I will keep that in mind.” 

Silence falls over the pair hidden away in the safety of the desert. Unspoken words whisper across the landscape. The pass the bottle back and forth, their fingertips brushing against one another, passing a continuous spark between them. The warmth of the fire beats back the fall evening’s chill, and the light creates a soft halo around the small clearing. 

Hanzo touches the serape hanging on his shoulders, sighs, and closes his eyes. Those unspoken words catch on his tongue, and his stomach ties into knots. On the tip of his tongue lay all of the truths he wants to confess. He rarely feels nervous about anything, but he struggles to find the strength to admit what lies waiting in his heart. 

“Wonder how the folks back in Twenty Nine Palms are doin’,” Jesse murmurs while feeding more dry brush to the fire. He frowns like he’s attending a funeral. “Think they’re doin’ okay?” 

Seeing Jesse so morose, so solemn, and so filled with anxiety continues to pain Hanzo. What words could he say to assuage the guilt and sorrow Jesse must feel? They haven’t talked about Twenty Nine Palms since leaving three days ago. He has to try. 

“Trust my brother. He was always a skilled actor, a talented liar if you will. He could make anyone believe anything. These marshals will not know the wiser. They won’t find you. We’ve covered our tracks in the dirt.” Hanzo takes a deep breath. “What matters now is that you’re safe.” 

Jesse tilts his head away from the fire and meets Hanzo’s eyes. To Hanzo, he looks so filled with regret and anguish. He reaches out to touch Hanzo’s cheek, his fingers caressing the shapely jawline. He pulls Hanzo into his arms for an embrace, his fingers digging into the soft cloth of his kyudo-gi. He whispers, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Remember that.” 

Hanzo doesn’t mind repeating his promise if Jesse needs to hear it over and over. He himself needed to hear Jesse’s words of comfort several times that day before the hearth. 

“In fact, as each day passes, I find myself growing more and more fond of the desert.” 

Jesse’s brow quirks in surprise. “What do you mean?” 

“I was reluctant to think of this place as anything but a temporary shelter, a place where Genji and I would stay for a time until moving on out of necessity. On our train ride from Los Angeles to town, I watched the landscape pass outside of the window. I thought, how could a barren, empty wasteland ever compare to my home back in Japan? How could anyone find this place hospitable. I could not appreciate it then. When we made our bet months later, I thought surely I would win. 

“Yet, as time passed, I found myself seeing beauty where once I saw nothingness. I think, perhaps, that my initial feelings eclipsed what I felt when I stared at my own reflection in a mirror. I looked upon the strangeness of this world and wondered how anything could ever fill the void in my heart from leaving our home.

“Then, Genji and I met you at the train station. I never thought a man who dressed like something out of one of my brother’s novels could ever become my friend. Gradually, I let myself become part of this place, and I know it is thanks to you.” Hanzo sighs softly. “I have known for quite some time that I lost our bet, and it was partially pride that kept me from sharing this fact. This appreciation has only grown as we have continued on our journey.” 

Jesse smiles half-heartedly and scratches the back of his neck. “So you’re telling me my taxonomy sales pitch was all for nothing?” 

“No, I enjoyed listening to you share your knowledge. I learned more than I knew before, and therefore, you have done a great service.” Hanzo smiles fondly to himself. “As I said, Jesse, I concede. The desert is far more beautiful than I first imagined it could be. Living here, making a home here, this was the right choice. I owe you dearly for making Genji and I feel welcome.” He hums in contentment. “You have won our gamble, and therefore, you may claim your prize.” 

Jesse lowers his hand from his neck. He blinks in shock and remains speechless. He pulls off his stetson, sets it down beside him, and runs his fingers through his brown hair. He laughs sheepishly and shrugs. 

“Well, I admit, I sorta thought of our gamble as part joke, part attempt to spend more time with you, Hanzo. I felt mighty shy even bringing it up that day, but I’ve been wanting to show you the Mojave for awhile now.” 

“And now you have, with more yet to see,” Hanzo smirks, “I honor my bets. Tell me, cowboy...” he lowers his voice and languidly draws his fingers along the collar of Jesse’s shirt. “What were you hoping to claim as your reward?” 

Jesse’s lips part in a silent gasp. He sits there, lamely, and then recollects himself moments later, only to meet Hanzo’s gaze and look away. 

“Well, uh, Hanzo. Back then, y’know… I guess I was really hopin’ I’d win the bet and maybe I could have a kiss as a prize. I wanted to kiss you real bad back then. But you and me, we’ve already sorta, y’know--” 

“A kiss, hm?” 

A sudden rush of liquid courage courses through his veins. Hanzo stares into Jesse’s warm eyes and reaches up to remove the ribbon from his hair, which then falls down his back. Jesse watches him, transfixed, as if mesmerized in a trance. 

Without hesitation, Hanzo grabs Jesse by the front of his blue and white gingham shirt, and he crashes their lips together. He fists the shirt and presses himself against Jesse’s body, suddenly desperate for contact. His cowboy tastes of the spices Ana used in her jerky and sweat from a long day’s ride in the sun. Jesse wraps his arm around Hanzo, pulling him close into his lap, and his hand buries into the loose, dark hair. Hanzo’s legs straddle Jesse’s waist, and as the kiss deepens, the heat of the fire becomes overwhelming. 

They share hot breath when they pull apart, and Jesse’s eyes look as wide as the moon. “I love kissin’ you, darlin’,” he purrs into Hanzo’s ear. “You taste mighty fine.”

Hanzo’s heart skips. The hands upon his clothed body touch him so carefully, so thoughtfully. One hand upon his hip, the other cupping the base of his neck. His kyudo-gi becomes stifling. He looks down upon Jesse and hears another coyote’s cry. He leans forward, brushing his nose against Jesse’s. Hanzo imagines this kind of intimacy alone would be enough to satisfy someone as compassionate and outgoing as Jesse, but it isn’t the only thing he wants. He has come to crave Jesse’s romantic attentions-- _being sweet on one another,_ as his cowboy liked to call it. 

Hanzo has always foregone personal desires and aspirations in order to do what was needed for his clan. Never would he have been able to experience the peace he has come to know alongside Jesse and the other residents of the town as clan leader back in Japan. He understands, in retrospect, what Genji used to say during their heated arguments in the months before their escape. 

_I refuse to be a sparrow with clipped wings. I will fly, and you all will watch me soar._

If only Hanzo could have understood what Genji meant sooner. If only he had not been so stubborn, so blinded by duty that he overlooked what lay just below the surface. Being leader of Clan Shimada never would have brought him happiness. Only sorrow. 

Instead, in this land of self-determination, Genji and Hanzo have carved their own path. They have found their footing. After what feels like wading through deep waters alone for so long, at last Hanzo can rest upon a solid shore.

He didn’t know what to expect when they came to America. He couldn’t believe Genji when he closed his eyes and chose the town at random on the train station’s map. In retrospect, that random choice feels like fate.

Now, he’s grateful his brother chose Twenty Nine Palms. Jesse doesn’t know what he would have done without Hanzo? Hanzo doesn’t know what _he_ would have done without Jesse. 

In the expanse of the desert, Hanzo traces his thumb along those chapped lips. Before him, he sees all that he wants, all that he needs. 

“I…” he chews on his bottom lip, “I care about you, Jesse McCree.” 

The words spill out before Hanzo can rethink his decision to reveal his feelings. 

The grip upon his body tightens. Jesse stares up into Hanzo’s eyes as if he’s looking upon a sacred idol here to bless him with holy salvation. The look of unadulterated awe from Jesse inspires him. Hanzo craves him physically with every fiber of his being. He wants what Jesse implied earlier. He wants to explore himself. He’s afraid. He’s terrified. Hanzo doesn’t know what will happen when he dives into uncharted waters. He knows deep in his heart he wants to feel the pleasure he experienced pressed up against Jesse McCree’s door and more. 

“Do you… do you really mean that, Hanzo?” 

Hanzo’s fingers trail through the scruff of Jesse’s beard. “I am a man of my word.” 

Jesse tilts his head and lays gentle, fleeting kisses along the slope of Hanzo’s neck. He hums in approval, the sound low, coming from deep inside himself. His grip on Hanzo eases. 

“I care about you too,” Jesse says over the crackle of the fire. He raises his head and hovers his mouth before Hanzo’s. “You have no idea, Hanzo, how much I needed to hear you say that.” 

Hanzo tugs Jesse closer. Their lips barely brush, but the slightest friction sends shivers down his spine. They stare into each other's eyes, circling around unspoken desires. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and finds the courage he needs. 

“I… I want you to make me yours,” he murmurs, the subtle movement causing their lips to meet. “Make love to me.” 

Before Hanzo can chastise himself for sounding so archaic and before he can cringe in embarrassment at his own nervous nature, Jesse leans close and kisses him once more. Hanzo bares himself to Jesse, surrendering to their passions, and opens his mouth to let their tongues meet. They stroke one another and explore each others mouths.

In the momentary lull between kisses, Jesse asks, “Can I undress you, Hanzo?” Hanzo nods. Jesse chases those lips with a kiss and groans into it. “Need you to say it aloud, darlin’.” 

“Do it. Undress me, please.” Desperation laces each word. The stifling heat has become unbearable. He wants those large hands upon his naked body, and anxieties be damned. “Touch me like you did before at the saloon.” 

When Hanzo forgets the reasons for their trip into the desert, his thoughts have always returned to the morning of Fareeha’s birthday. Pressed against the bathroom door like a shuddering, trembling mess, dying to be touched. That ache hasn’t left his bones--it has only spread like a wildfire, consuming his thoughts like dry brush. 

Jesse doesn’t hesitate further. His hands fall to the cloth tie at Hanzo’s waist. He nudges it apart and the richly blue garment opens like a book. Jesse pushes down the sleeves of Hanzo’s kyudo-gi until skin is revealed and then pulls it away from his body. 

The top of his tattoo sleeve draws Jesse’s attention, first with fingertips tracing the stormclouds and the dragon. The exploration leaves Hanzo breathless. No one but family has ever seen the tattoo. He’s proud of its design, proud of what it represents, and to have Jesse touch it so gently, so thoughtfully… 

And then, abruptly bringing Hanzo back down to earth from the clouds, hot, powerful kisses pepper along Hanzo’s neck, over his adam’s apple. Jesse’s mouth feels everywhere at once as his fingers play with the stiffness of Hanzo’s nipples, drawing their shape, pinching, tugging, flicking. Palms splay flat against his pectorals, squeezing and pushing the two together. 

Soft moans escape Hanzo’s lips with each touch. The silence of the desert evening fades into the low noises of their love-making by the campfire. 

“You’re so pretty, Hanzo. So beautiful.” The praise doesn’t fall upon deaf ears. “I’m gonna treat you so well, sweetheart, gonna take such good care of you.” 

The intensity of the moment starts to overwhelm him, and they haven’t progressed to new territories. Jesse sucks hard on his neck over little lovebites left behind by their previous intimate encounter days ago. The scruff of Jesse’s beard sends ripples of pleasure throughout his body. 

“Seeing these marks on your neck just makes me possessed, Hanzo. You have no idea.” 

Hanzo blushes. He arches his back, giving himself completely to his cowboy, and he burrows his hands into Jesse’s messy hair. 

“They’re for your eyes only,” he whispers with half-lidded eyes. 

Hanzo’s torso becomes riddled with little red pressure areas that will eventually darken. A wet, slippery tongue circles round one of his nipples. Teeth graze against the sensitive peak, and Hanzo shuts his eyes tight. He bites his lip, suppressing any sounds of pleasure, but Jesse has other ideas. 

Jesse cups him through the cloth of his trousers, pressing hard. He tugs on the pert nipple with his teeth and draws his head back, eliciting a lewd groan from Hanzo. 

“Oh, God--”

“Don’t hold back from me,” he growls. “I want to hear it, do you understand?” 

Hanzo opens his eyes and starts to nod, but remembers what Jesse said before. “I-I do.” 

“Good. Trust me, Hanzo.” 

“I do, I…” 

Jesse starts to unbutton his gingham shirt, and once undone, he tosses it aside. He takes Hanzo’s hand and presses it on the area over his heart. 

“You feel that? That’s my heart. Beating for you.” He winks and pats Hanzo’s cheek. “So, are you sure about this, Hanzo?”

“I… I’m sure.”

“If it becomes too much, just tell me, and we’ll stop. I promise.”

Jesse guides Hanzo to lay on his serape after spreading it against the dusty earth. He kneels before him and his hands fall to his belt buckle, pulling the pieces carefully apart. 

Hanzo leans on his elbows and observes in awe. His mouth feels as dry as the desert, his heart stammers in his chest, and his pants feel tighter. He watches the scene unfold before him and wonders if he should look away to give Jesse some semblance of privacy. Then, immediately after, he feels silly for the thought. He couldn’t look away from his soon-to-be-lover even if he tried. 

Jesse stands and kicks off his boots and socks. He unzips his jeans and then tugs his pants and undergarments down his thighs. Inch by inch, slow and steady, revealing sun-kissed skin that Hanzo has never seen before. 

Hanzo’s never felt so enraptured in suspense. Nothing has ever consumed him in the way Jesse McCree has come to occupy his waking thoughts. He can’t believe this is happening, and then it does--the clothes fall to the ground, he steps out of them carefully, and Jesse McCree stands before him naked. 

Hanzo’s eyes widen. In their clearing, the halo of the fire’s light plays on Jesse’s features, accentuating his muscles. There’s hair on his chest, and his eyes fall to the tuff of dark hair leading down to… to the thick cock that Jesse holds proudly in hand. Hanzo’s never seen one like it. 

“You keep lookin’ at me like that darlin’, I’m gonna damn near start blushing.” 

Hanzo blinks and stops gawking at Jesse. His heart thuds faster in his chest. He licks his lips and tries to think of something witty to say, something clever, something brilliant that will sweep Jesse off of his feet. 

“You look… good.” 

Jesse throws back his head and laughs so hard he clutches at his stomach.

“What a charmer, Hanzo. You think up that compliment all by yourself?” 

Hanzo deadpans. “Hush. Come here.” 

Jesse spits into his palm and then gives experimental tugs on his cock. He grins at Hanzo, whose face burns up like the sun as he watches Jesse touch himself. Jesse kneels back down on the serape and gently nudges Hanzo’s legs apart.

“Your turn.” 

Hanzo’s skin becomes hypersensitive, completely aware of the texture of Jesse’s warm palm dragging along his chest with enough pressure to leave him feeling off-balance. He nods, and he fixates his gaze upon Jesse who begins to unlace his boots. Then slowly, too slowly, Jesse tugs his pants off, leaving only his fundoshi. His cowboy presses his palm into Hanzo’s groin, stroking him through the thin white cloth. 

Hanzo melts, his heavy breaths evolving into pants and moans, and he opens his eyes wide when he feels Jesse’s mouth upon him once more. Peppered kisses down his chest, starting at the tattoo, carelessly placed, trailing down to his abdomen. 

“Keep your eyes on me, handsome.” 

Jesse’s fingers hook into the cloth of the fundoshi and pull downward. Hanzo doesn’t breathe, he can barely draw oxygen into his lungs. The fire has sucked it all out from their little clearing. The kisses upon his flesh return, tender, quiet, and then Jesse removes the final piece of clothing. 

“You’re beautiful,” Jesse says in awe. He spreads his palms along the ‘v’ of Hanzo’s abdomen and leave heat in their wake.

Hanzo’s only ever felt this vulnerable once, and the circumstances of that ordeal can’t truly be compared to this moment. He doesn’t bother covering himself up in modesty. He lays back against the serape, his legs parted somewhat, his hair tousled, his hands trembling. 

Jesse shifts back up over Hanzo’s body, supporting himself on one hand placed by Hanzo’s head. Their bare bodies touch. Every high meets every low. Jesse’s weight doesn’t lay fully atop Hanzo, but it’s enough to feel hot, bothered, smothered. 

“You doin’ alright?”

“Yes,” Hanzo breathes. “I am not a--”

His words trail off into a moan, cut off abruptly by Jesse grinding his hips down onto him. The friction sends sensations up and down his spine. His eyes flutter closed, his hips buck upwards, desperate for contact, but Jesse draws back. 

“Tease…” 

“Darlin’ you don’t know the half of it.” 

Jesse’s rough palm explores Hanzo’s broad chest, tracing all scars and marks he finds along the way. Each light touch leaves him electrified, his heart skipping in his chest, and as those fingers trail lower to his abdomen, Hanzo forgets to breathe. 

Hanzo shudders. He forces his eyes open and watches Jesse lay wet kisses down the meridian of his chest, lower, lower… 

“You ever touched yourself, Hanzo?” He murmurs against the apex of his thighs. 

Hanzo swallows hard and turns beat red. He finds himself cursing that silver, sultry tongue of Jesse’s all over again. Jesse could say anything in this moment, and it would be the bane of Hanzo’s existence. Jesse could damn him to the coldest layer of hell and and he’d happily oblige.

“No need to be ashamed of it.” 

“I…” Hanzo chastises himself and shakes his head. “No, not really. I never…” He trails off when he meets Jesse’s eyes, and he realizes he can’t hide the truth. “Only once.” 

“Tell me what you did, what you thought of.” 

“It was in your washroom.” 

Jesse’s brow quirks in curiosity and amusement. “Oh?” His fingers draw circles on Hanzo’s hipbone. “Go on,” he drawls. “Don’t leave me hangin’.” 

Hanzo takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair. He’s never been put on the spot like this before. Where to even begin? 

“I was thinking about you that morning. About our kiss. All of them.” 

“What about them?”

“I enjoyed when your tongue drew circles around my…”

Jesse picks up where Hanzo trails off. “I’ll do you one better.” He raises his mouth to Hanzo’s nipple, wets his lips, and then sucks hard on the stiff peak. His tongue draws circles around it, varying its pace. Wandering fingers grab hold of Hanzo’s cock between them, his thumb stroking the sensitive area beneath the head. 

It’s too much for Hanzo, who searches for something to grasp. He finds leverage in Jesse’s hair, his fingers tugging at the brown strands. All thoughts evaporate, and his inhibitions melt away like snow. 

The hand circled around his cock starts to move, stroking Hanzo further to life. He ruts against Jesse’s palm, uncoordinated, sloppy. Jesse leaves his nipple red and sore, and when it becomes too sensitive, Hanzo pulls Jesse up for a deep kiss. 

When the kiss breaks, Jesse makes his way arduously slow down Hanzo’s body. Little marks litter his pale skin. They stare at each other, panting, and he can see the restraint in Jesse’s brown eyes. Hanzo can only compare Jesse to a man possessed. 

Jesse sits up on his haunches and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. His eyes fall half-lidded and he growls out, “Spread your legs.” He bites his lip. “Yeah. Just like that. Look at you. You’re gorgeous.” 

Hanzo’s never been praised for his looks. He shivers under that smirk. He digs his fingers into the serape beneath his palm. 

Jesse caresses Hanzo’s bottom lip with his thumb. He offers two fingers to him and then they slip into the warmth of Hanzo’s mouth. 

“Get ‘em nice and wet for me, okay, sweetheart?”

Hanzo moans around those probing fingers that he lathers with his tongue. He sucks on those digits and trembles in anticipation. He remembers what happened next in the novel and flushes. 

Jesse draws his hand back and then moves lower. He leans against one elbow and grabs hold of the base of Hanzo’s cock to keep it still. He lays several slow, experimental licks along Hanzo’s length while keeping his eyes focused upward. His lips close around the tip and then gradually take more in. He bobs his head up and down, hollowing his cheeks to apply pressure. 

Hanzo gasps when Jesse takes him down his throat. His eyes widen. He can’t believe Jesse’s doing this. He can’t believe this is happening. He groans, utters a strangled phrase in Japanese, and bucks up into that hot vice.

One wet finger circles around his entrance. Hanzo covers his mouth with his palm to muffle his moan. He shuts his eyes tight and arches his back to the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. 

Jesse releases his cock with a pop. He licks his lips, winks, and slowly presses his finger into Hanzo. 

“God. You’re doing great, Hanzo.” 

The finger inside of him curls slightly, stroking, moving in and out. A second one pushes beside it, and his entire body grows rigid at the intrusion.

“Relax. Breathe. Do you want me to stop?” 

“N-No. Hanzo says. “I’m fine it just feels…” Eloquence is lost on him. “Different.” 

“Do you trust me?” 

“Yes.”

Jesse chuckles and starts to scissor the two fingers together to stretch him. “I’ll take care of you, I promise.” 

He pulls out his fingers, spits into his palm, and then continues touching Hanzo most intimately. He leans down and takes him into his mouth once more. 

“Fuck!”

Hanzo sees Jesse’s lips spread upward in a cocky smirk. The fingers moving in and out of him move faster, hitting something inside of him that sends pleasurable shocks throughout his body. 

Jesse replaces his mouth with his other hand. He strokes evenly, keeping pace between his movements, and giving attention to the head. 

When Hanzo starts furiously thrusting up into Jesse’s hand, Jesse leans away and removes his fingers from Hanzo. 

“Keep it together, beautiful, I’m not done with you yet.” 

Hanzo’s stomach drops. His gaze falls to the thick length between Jesse’s legs. His throat feels dry. 

“Like what you see?” 

Hanzo deadpans. He tries to steady his thoughts, and he racks his mind trying to think of something clever to say to turn the tables on his cowboy. He can’t keep letting Jesse one up him like this.

“It is... nice?” 

Jesse rolls his eyes and grins. “Is that really the best you’ve got?”

“Ugh.” Hanzo covers his face with his palm in embarrassment, but he can’t help but laugh. “Hush, cowboy.” Their eyes meet. “Isn’t there something you should be attending to?”

Jesse’s grin falls from his face in surprise. Hanzo sees Jesse swallow visibly, and then he reaches out and interlocks his hand with Hanzo’s. He raises it to his lips, kisses the pale knuckles, and then lowers their joined hands to his length. 

Hanzo gasps softly, and suddenly his head feels light. Jesse guides his exploration, whispering words of encouragement to touch him, and then lets go. Feather-light touches run up and down the small vein. 

Hanzo draws back his finger and takes a deep breath. He rubs his palm into his stomach, hoping it’ll ease the knots forming there. 

“Does it hurt?”

Jesse smiles, his gaze friendly and warm. The shadows play on his cheekbones, the glow from the fire bathing his cowboy in hues of red and orange. 

“It might at first,” he says with an honest shrug. “But, listen, I told you I’d take good care of you. We’ll go slow.” 

“I… I appreciate that, Jesse,” Hanzo whispers. He licks his dry lips. “...But at the same time, I do not wish for you to hold back.” 

“You got it darlin’.” 

Jesse settles between Hanzo’s thighs, grabs hold of his legs, and holds them up at an angle. He lathers his cock with more spit and draws circles with the tip around Hanzo’s stretched hole. 

Hanzo can tell Jesse is taking his sweet time. Damn that cowboy. Was he expecting for Hanzo to beg? He groans and grinds out between clenched teeth, “Jesse.” 

“Alright, alright.” Jesse chuckles. He pushes himself inside, breaching the tight rim carefully and Hanzo gasps. “Try to relax your muscles.” 

It’s easier said than done. He forgets to breathe. Forgets how to speak English. It isn’t at all what he thought it would feel like. It’s tight, hot, like being impaled, but Jesse keeps his word and takes it slow so he can adjust to the building pressure in his abdomen.

Once halfway inside, Jesse leans forward, and runs his hands over Hanzo’s chest, his touch lingering upon his pectorals and the dragon tattoo. He presses his weight onto Hanzo, who becomes rigid beneath him. He braces himself on either side of Hanzo’s shoulders and starts to rock his hips back and forth, stretching him further. Jesse repeatedly wets his length over and over, and Hanzo digs his nails into Jesse’s shoulder, leaving little crescent marks on unmarred flesh. His breathing comes out ragged, but the underlying pain begins to be drowned out by overwhelming pleasure.

Jesse grabs Hanzo by the hips and bottoms out inside of him. He presses his sweaty forehead into Hanzo and stares down into Hanzo’s brown eyes. He cups his chin, running his fingers over the dark, scratchy facial hair. He studies his features, searching for permission to continue, and then Hanzo quickly nods. 

“Please,” he whispers, “I… I need this, Jesse.”

Jesse starts to pound hard and fast into him, building a sweat. His thighs smack against the backs of Hanzo’s bent legs. He captures those pouting lips, warm breath mingling as they pant. He devours Hanzo’s moans, brings the bottom lip between his, and sucks hard. 

“You holdin’ up alright darlin’?” Jesse asks with a grunt against Hanzo’s ear. He presses a smoldering kiss on the warm ear lobe. “Need me to stop? Slow down--”

“No!” Hanzo begs with a groan. He grabs two handfuls of Jesse’s bottom and draws him closer, deeper. “D-Don’t you dare stop!”

Swallowing unspoken confessions, completely undone by passion, their bodies start to move together as one. Hanzo wraps his arms around Jesse’s neck. He buries his hands into Jesse’s messied hair. They kiss, frantically, needing one another, craving contact, beating back the evening cold together. 

Jesse tries to lean away, but Hanzo chases his lips, and the slightest change in their angle sends shockwaves through them both. Jesse straightens his back upright, slows his pace, but deepens his thrusts.

Hanzo shudders and with a trembling hand, he reaches down to touch the area where they’re joined. His warm palm moves upward, lingers on a large scar on Jesse’s stomach. He tightens the grip his legs have on Jesse’s waist, drawing him in. Jesse takes Hanzo in hand and rubs his cock, heightening the pleasure he experiences. 

“Jesus, Hanzo. I-I’m so close, I...” Jesse trails off, speech failing him, and grunts. 

The world feels as if it’s on fire. Every muscle in Hanzo’s body stiffens in one pinnacle moment, and the tension releases. He cries out, shaking, and fists the serape beneath them. Jesse keeps stroking his cock and sloppily thrusting into him until he throws back his head and shouts his name into the desert expanse. Something hot spurts inside of him, making Hanzo’s toes curl. 

The smell of sex fills the clearing, blending with the smoke. They share a lazy, tired smile. Jesse brushes the matted, sweaty hair from Hanzo’s face. They kiss, briefly, and then Jesse pulls out, leaving a sticky trail behind. He slumps down on top of Hanzo. 

“Hope you don’t mind, darlin’. You damn well tuckered me out.”

Hanzo’s half-tempted to push him off just to tease his cowboy, but he also finds himself enjoying the weight atop him. He draws nonsensical shapes on Jesse’s back, light, soft, and he can’t stop smiling. He’s never felt more relaxed, more at peace. He welcomes this vulnerability.

“Could you at least grab the other blanket?” Hanzo asks with a raw voice. “Or have you become completely boneless?”

“Oof. So demanding.” Jesse winks and Hanzo rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright. As you wish.” 

Jesse sits up and fishes around for a washcloth. He wets it with water from the canteen and then returns to Hanzo. He nudges those twitching legs apart and gently wipes away the mess they made. 

Hanzo blushes. Jesse didn’t have to clean him up. 

“Thank you.”

“Of course, darlin’.”

Jesse finishes and then searches for their thick wool blanket they’ve shared these last few nights. 

Hanzo spares a glance beyond the halo of the clearing, away from the shapeliness of Jesse’s bottom, and sees their two horses sleeping upright. He snorts. 

“I’m surprised they could sleep through your racket.” 

“My racket?” Jesse says while dramatically clutching his chest. “That’s mighty precious, Hanzo. I must’ve scrambled your brains real good, cause I’m pretty damn sure you were the one hootin’ and hollerin’ into the desert, beggin’ me not to stop just a minute ago.” He chuckles. “Frankly, if you call that a racket, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” 

Jesse grabs the abandoned bottle of whiskey, lays the blanket over Hanzo, and then rejoins him at his side underneath it. 

“Better?”

“Mmm.” Hanzo snatches the bottle out of Jesse’s hands. He takes a long drink, feeling parched, and then sighs. He offers it back to Jesse. “Much better.” 

They share the drink back and forth, staring up at the brilliant night sky above them. Thousands of stars twinkle and shine. The fire starts to die besides them, but they have each other’s body heat to keep them warm. 

Hanzo searches for Jesse’s hand between them and squeezes it once found. “I used to stargaze through the window of my room in the Shimada castle. I could peer through the branches of the sakura to see constellations our mother taught us when we were young boys.”

“See any up there?”

“A few.” Hanzo points up at the sky. “Ursa Major, the Great Bear. Orion, the Hunter. My favorite, however, is Sagittarius--Iteza--the Archer.”

“Why am I unsurprised.”

Hanzo laughs. “And just what is your favorite, hmm, cowboy?”

“I always had a hard to picking out stars in the sky. There’s just so many, y’know? But I guess if I had to name a favorite, I always liked the Great Dog since it’s got the brightest star in the sky. Sirius. Or at least that’s what my father taught me. Said no matter what, if I could find that star, I’d always be able to find my way back home if ever got lost” 

“Canis Major--Ōinuza--the Great Dog. It’s actually quite interesting. Many people think Polaris, the North Star is the brightest star in the night sky, but Sirius actually--”

Hanzo’s cut off by a playful nudge to his ribs.

“Show off. I hope I didn’t sound like that when I was tellin’ you about God forsaken cacti.” 

“I told you, I enjoyed that.” Hanzo takes another long drink from the whiskey bottle. He yawns, suddenly feeling sleepy, and sets the bottle down beside him with the cap on tight. “Honestly, Jesse McCree, you could read the classifieds in a newspaper and I’d find it interesting.”

Jesse snorts. “Is that your backhanded way of saying you like the sound of my voice?”

“Perhaps that is what I’m saying.” 

“Oh yeah. You’re a charmer alright.” 

Hanzo runs a hand through Jesse’s brown hair and sighs. “Hush now.” 

“I’m feelin’ mighty tuckered out, so I bet you’re exhausted. Half a day’s ride to the safehouse. Think you’ll be able to wake up bright and early?” 

Hanzo scoffs. “If you are questioning whether or not I will be able to keep up tomorrow because of our… _relations,_ I assure you, I will meet your pace.” 

“Good.” Jesse cups his cheek and lays a light kiss upon his lips. “If we wake up early enough tomorrow and you ain’t too sore, we can go for round two.”

“I’ll have more than enough energy.” Hanzo waves him off. “Go to bed, cowboy.”

“I’m tryin’,” Jesse teases. He pulls him closer, tucking Hanzo’s head beneath his chin. “G’night, Hanzo.”

Hanzo murmurs a goodnight and his eyes fall closed. He drifts off to sleep with ease beneath the blanket of stars, with the warmth of Jesse McCree at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us know what you thought! Thank you for reading! 
> 
> We would like to thank [ Kazimo](http://kazimo.tumblr.com/) for their [artwork](http://bamfbugboy.tumblr.com/post/155126967358/without-hesitation-hanzo-grabs-jesse-by-the-front) for this chapter.


	20. Growth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse and Hanzo arrive at the safehouse while tensions rise back in Twenty Nine Palms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the warnings tagged to this story. Thank you for tuning in. We hope you enjoy this chapter!!

Hanzo almost forgets how much time has passed out here in the Mojave with Jesse. Time seems so insignificant to Hanzo, who used to always feel as if he were racing against the clock. But Jesse keeps track of the days, and when they arrive at the safehouse nestled in an abandoned mining shaft, Jesse tells him how Jack and Gabriel helped him establish the hideaway for moments like this--being on the run again. The safehouse is just as Jesse left it when he was here before, undisturbed by time’s passage: a bed pushed to the edge of the small open space in the shaft, a table with one lantern, a stash of U.S. Army rations, and a safe filled with money Jesse claims to have acquired during his travels through less than legal methods. He tells Hanzo that seven days have passed since they left town. 

Two days later, when the eleventh of November comes, they mark the anniversary of the Armistice together and remember James. In the commotion of preparing to leave Twenty Nine Palms to escape from oncoming United States marshals, Jesse had not been able to commemorate his brother on the Day of the Dead. 

At the safehouse, Hanzo helps Jesse build a makeshift altar, and they place the photograph Jesse always kept with him in the center near a lantern. They pray together. Jesse shares memories of James. He recalls the time they both accidentally set the family barn on fire, or the times when James would play his guitar for his brother to teach him how to play. The mood is somber, but this time, Hanzo notices that it’s easier for Jesse to talk about James. He even laughs and smiles as he does so. They break out Jesse’s special stash of whiskey he’s been saving for a special occasion (“Being on the run again!” Jesse had exclaimed sarcastically). They pass the bottle back and forth while sitting on the small twin bed pushed to the edge of the mine’s clearing. 

“James would have liked you a whole lot, Hanzo. I think he would’ve been grateful for me to have someone watching my back when he couldn’t. I think you would’ve liked him too. You’ve both got so much in common. Both of you have loud, obnoxious younger brothers who love embarrassing the hell out of you at every chance we get.” 

Hanzo snorts, takes a drink, and then passes the bottle of whiskey back to Jesse. “I can easily imagine you being a downright terror to James.” 

“Oh yeah, I was quite the little shit. There’s no question about that. James didn’t mind it. We loved teasing each other. I sometimes made him look like a damn fool in front of the kids we used to play with. Terry Buchanan, the Dawson sisters, the Rivas twins. We all were thick as thieves growing up. He was oldest, so he tried to keep us all in line. He was the leader of our little band of misfits.” 

Hanzo wraps his arm around Jesse and shakes his head. The alcohol warms his thoughts. He grins and chuckles to himself.

“Genji was no better. I remember once we were traveling in the little town outside of Hanamura shortly after I had received the tattoo on my arm. We passed a group of young women in the market, and he loudly announced that I had a rather impressive ‘dragon’ as he called it hidden beneath my clothes. The women near us were absolutely mortified at the comment, as flustered as I was, and all Genji could do was smirk and laugh.” 

“I mean, I gotta agree. It is pretty impressive,” Jesse purrs while sliding his hand up the inside of Hanzo’s clothed thigh. “Should be proud of it.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes and playfully swats at Jesse’s roaming palm. “Perhaps it is a younger brother’s duty to never let his elder’s pride get the better of him and to keep him humble.”

They both laugh together. When the raucous laughter dies, Jesse sighs deeply and passes back the bottle. “Yeah.” He pauses and wipes at his eyes. “James was the best damn brother a man could ask for. I loved him. Miss him every single day.” 

Hanzo raises the near-empty bottle. “To James McCree.”

Jesse blinks at him, stunned into silence, and then he mimics the gesture. His voice strains, but he manages to say the toast with vigor, “To James McCree. May he rest in peace.”

They each take a drink from the bottle, one after the other, and then they lean back against the bed’s headboard. Jesse smiles softly, despite the heavy emotion hanging like weights in his brown eyes. “Thanks for doing all this and listening to me ramble, Hanzo. I appreciate it.”

Hanzo doesn’t speak. He leans in and kisses Jesse. The kiss starts out soft, chaste, a brief moment of contact. Their eyes meet, and Hanzo sees the last remnants of tears daring to fall from Jesse’s eyes. He runs his thumb along Jesse’s cheek, catching the stray ones that fall. He knows this hurt, this pain. Loss that settles into one’s heart and remains there, like planted seeds that grow into a tree, permanent, with history. He marks every year with the birthdays and anniversaries of his parents’ deaths. He still cannot believe how close he was to losing Genji. 

In no world could Hanzo survive having to commemorate the memory of a fallen brother, the eager, outspoken man he grew up alongside, who made sure to keep him honest with himself. In no life could he bear the weight of losing their parents and then Genji as well. 

With the thought of loss weighing on his mind, Hanzo feels sparks ignite between them. The firewater racing through his veins spurs him on. They part for a moment and then return to one another, drawn like moths to a flame. Hanzo rolls on top of Jesse and pins him to the bed, and they start to peel off their clothes in a hurry, helping one another and tossing the discarded clothes haphazardly around the small safehouse.

Once they’re both undressed, Hanzo sits up straight, blinks down at Jesse, and pants deeply. Jesse admires him, grinning, and his rough fingers stroke Hanzo’s thighs that straddle his waist. His expression softens, and he lays slow kisses on Hanzo’s shoulder. 

“So, Hanzo…” Jesse purrs, and that alone draws Hanzo under his spell. “You think you can handle ridin’ a wild stallion like me?” 

Hanzo groans. He pinches his brows and covers his face with his palm. He tries to cover his embarrassed, flushed cheeks, but Jesse doesn’t let him. Jesse pulls back his hands and meets his gaze with a smirk. 

“Come on, Hanzo. Admit it. I know you’re fixin’ to try. I’ve seen the way you look at me. You’re cocky, even if you try to hide it. I know you’ve wanted to wrangle me since the moment you saw me. You ain't the type of man to back down from a challenge.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes and grabs hold of Jesse’s firm cock beneath them. He gives it a few experimental strokes and scoffs under his breath, “Stupid cowboy.”

Jesse laughs and shrugs. “You know what they say, Hanzo. Wanna ride the bull you gotta grab it by the horns.”

x X x

Afterward, they lay together, naked beneath the tousled white sheets, with Hanzo laying against Jesse’s warm chest. Jesse rests with one hand behind his head, the other holding one of the few remaining cigars from the tin his brother left behind. He exhales, smoke billowing out in front of them, and then he offers it to Hanzo.

Hanzo glances to Jesse and murmurs, “You really shouldn’t smoke.” He takes the cigar and inspects it. It appears to be of a high grade, and it smells like ceylon, tobacco, and other earthy spices. 

Jesse rolls his eyes. “And yet I see you’re partaking.”

Hanzo takes a drag from the cigar and then blows the smoke into Jesse’s face with a smirk. He hands it back to Jesse afterward and shrugs. 

“I was curious. It has an adequate smell. My father used to smoke cigars while working in his study. Whenever he walked near me he always smelled like it, it was riddled on all of his clothes. Our mother always reminded him that smoking was bad for his health.”

“She sounds a lot like Angela. I honestly don’t plan on making a habit out of it. On the rare occasion I do have one, seems like she’s always there, circlin’ like a hawk, tellin’ me it’s bad for my health. ‘You’ll get sick, Jesse. You’re going to smell all day, Jesse. It’ll make people feel sick, Jesse.’”

“Well, it’s true. You are going to smell like cigars and sweat for the rest of the day.” 

“Five minutes ago you’re goin’ on and on about how much you love the way I smell. You couldn’t get enough of it. ‘Musk of McCree,’ I oughtta call it.” 

Hanzo’s completely scandalized by that comment. “I suggested _no_ such thing.”

“I do believe I apologized over it, tellin’ you I was sorry if I smelled bad. So you told me and I quote ‘No, it’s fine, Jesse, just don’t stop.’”

Hanzo huffs. He folds his arms across his chest and closes his eyes. He has nothing clever to say to counter that, because it’s indeed true. He didn’t care how Jesse smelled, not while he was making him see actual stars in his vision. 

“So, speaking of the good doctor, Miss Angela…” Jesse changes the subject, his tone playful. “If you don’t mind me askin’, what do you think of her?” 

Hanzo opens one eye and tilts his head to look at Jesse, his curiosity piqued. He raises a brow and asks, “What do you mean?”

“Well just that, Hanzo. What do you think of her? Do you like her? Got an opinion?”

Hanzo ponders the question. He takes the cigar back from Jesse and blows rings of smoke before him. He’s heard plenty about Angela every evening since they arrived in town. Genji always felt inclined to share his thoughts about her while they both got ready for bed at the inn. Genji had a hard time stopping, even when the hour grew late, and Hanzo had to tell him to be quiet and go to bed. He knew details Genji felt permitted to share about her personal life, and he never inquired further. As time passed Hanzo left Genji to his own judgment. If Genji liked Doctor Angela Ziegler enough to seek a romantic courtship with her, he knew there would be no stopping it on his end. Genji has, for the most part, left him alone to explore a relationship with Jesse, Hanzo felt it prudent to let Genji have the same privacy.

“I think she is a rather responsible woman keeping all of you in line, making sure you look after yourselves. Like herding cats, as they say. She does the impossible.” Hanzo chuckles and then adds, “When we arrived at the town and you took us to her clinic, I was surprised to see her looking after the aggressors from the bar brawl you were injured from. She seemed sincere in her duty as a doctor to look after anyone, no matter their background or what they had done. That is admirable, though perhaps foolish to an extent. There are those who may one day take advantage of her charity and compassion. I hope the men whose wounds she mended never return to Twenty Nine Palms. I hope they keep their distance. I hope they learned their lesson from her mercy.” 

“I think you sent them a pretty clear message in the bar when they came around again. You kicked their ass. Gotta say it was pretty hot, you standin’ there, huffin’ and puffin’, adrenaline coursin’ through your veins. Made me feel pretty flustered.” Jesse leans close and whispers into Hanzo’s ear. “If we had been a couple back then… oh, Hanzo, I’d’ve taken you upstairs and showed you proper appreciation for your grand heroics. I’d’ve fucked you speechless.”

Hanzo can understand that feeling well. He remembers on that first day when he and Genji came into town, Jesse shot the Los Muertos thug Alejandro Comenzara. No hesitation, no questions--Jesse shot the man in the foot for threatening him and had no regrets. In hindsight, he can concede to admiring Jesse’s actions and feeling the same. He too felt surprised, and maybe even a little aroused if he’s honest. What would it feel like to watch Jesse do far more than fire a single warning shot?

“Terrible.” Hanzo licks his lips and smirks at Jesse. “And to think you pray with that mouth.” 

“Come now, Hanzo. Don’t act so high and mighty. Pretty sure you were shoutin’ to God a little while ago yourself. I’m sure He’ll forgive me for cussin’ and He’ll forgive you for takin’ his name in vain, too.” 

Hanzo groans and shakes his head. He rolls partly over, laying over Jesse, and he runs his fingers through Jesse’s brown chest hair. 

“Filthy.”

Jesse finishes the cigar and then snuffs out the stub in a tray on the rickety wooden bedside table. “Darlin’, don’t you worry. I’ll let you clean me up once we’re at the springs. I’ll even let you wash behind my ears.” 

Hanzo makes a ‘tsk’ noise and meets Jesse’s gaze. He stares into those amused brown eyes and finds himself enjoying the teasing banter they share more than ever before. 

“Why did you bring up Angela, if you do not mind me asking?”

“Oh, right. Well. I was thinkin’. Seems to me like she and Genji are gettin’ pretty close. I was wondering if you knew that.”

“How could I not? My brother is not exactly subtle. Every evening he is always talking about her.” 

Jesse chuckles. “Yeah. That’s true. It’s sweet though, watching them around the saloon. It’s been good to see Angela open up more. I’ve known her for about three years now. Always thought she was a nice lady, a fine woman. We’re lucky to have her in town. She’s patched me up plenty over the years. Been scolded plenty by her.” He exhales deeply. “She used to be a bit of a wallflower before you and Genji rolled into town like tumbleweeds. She smiles a lot more. The war took a lot from her, so I’m grateful your brother’s been able help her feel happy again.” 

Hanzo nods, pensive. “I wonder if Genji is as terrible of a flirt as you are. Knowing him, he’s probably worse.”

“Aw, don’t say that, Hanzo. Every time I’ve seen them together, he’s seems awfully bashful around her. I heard he helped fix up her house some and that they’ve been takin’ tea together most every day from Ana.” Jesse tilts his head and shrugs. “Maybe I oughtta give Genji some of that fine sakurayu to brew up for her.” 

“If he did present that to her, it would be a serious gesture.” 

Hanzo ponders on the thought of Genji one day marrying. Genji would always marry for love, he knew that without a doubt, even if they had remained in Japan, somehow. Stray thoughts turn into visions--he and Genji safe, happy, prosperous, with the people they care for at their side. Homes in the desert, living amongst their friends, joyful, growing old together. Despite his and Jesse’s reasons for hiding away in the safehouse--to escape the marshals--he can imagine living in Twenty Nine Palms for the rest of his life--and being _happy_ with that fate. 

“They’re cute, those two. Especially when they’re dancin’ together in the saloon. Gosh I’d never seen Angela let her hair down like that when we first all got together. Reminds me of how my mom and dad used to be back home, when we were growin’ up. They’d put a record on and they’d dance a little in the kitchen after dinner, different stuff, usually. Sometimes they’d do a waltz, sometimes somethin’ faster, somethin’ mom taught dad. Dad was a klutz--he had absolutely no rhythm, the poor guy. Must’ve had two left feet, Christ.” Jesse laughs. “James and I usually stopped secretly watchin’ them then, cause then they’d get all cuddly on each other.” 

Hanzo smiles fondly as he remembers his parents and the love they once shared. They respected one another, maintained the Shimada family’s reputation and place in Japan, and they managed to raise two children with grace. 

“Genji and I would catch our mother and father sitting together by the little stream within the castle grounds. Mother would read poetry to him while he rested. Other times they would talk business, and I would stand from the balcony overlooking the area and listen to them speak in hushed tones. Sometimes it wasn’t always business. Sometimes our father would talk about us, about what he had heard from our master regarding our training, and I would always feel pleased knowing that they were proud of me.” Hanzo sighs. “All I ever wanted to do was make them proud.” He leans back against the headboard and stares up at the ceiling of the mine shaft. “Our mother and father seemed close, closer than most married couples who visited our home to do business with my father.”

“If you don’t mind me askin’, what do you think your parents would’ve thought of me?” Jesse asks with a playful tone, but Hanzo notices a crease in his brows. “Do you think they’d’ve approved?” 

At first Hanzo doesn’t know what to say. The question renders him dumbfounded as he racks his mind for an answer. 

“Truthfully, I… I am not sure. Being the oldest child of my family, I would have eventually been betrothed to another. A woman from another important, powerful family to increase our own status or to solidify an alliance or a business arrangement.” 

No, Hanzo would have been told to marry someone his parents approved of, someone with a prestigious background, someone who came from wealth, power, who held a proper reputation. He can’t imagine Jesse meeting his father, and he doesn’t see either side tolerating one another for long. His father would think Jesse perhaps an excellent shot but too loud, too uncouth, too dirty, too vulgar. Perhaps his father would have agreed to hiring Jesse as a guard, as a heavy-lifter to help with shipments, but the idea of Hanzo being with Jesse would have perturbed his father. Less for being a man and more for coming from humble beginnings. His mother would have admired Jesse’s heart in all the ways that he himself does, but even she would have doubts about he and Jesse being in a relationship. 

“I think my mother would have liked you more than my father.” 

It’s a significantly more generous statement than a younger version of himself may have offered Jesse. 

Jesse raises a brow, his curiosity piqued. “Yeah?” 

“She would have enjoyed the way you tell stories. Just as I do.” 

Jesse’s shoulders slacken, the tension in his jaw dissipates, and he smiles. 

“Well I’m downright touched to know you love my storytellin’ skills, Hanzo.” 

“You embellish well.”

Jesse looks downright scandalized. “Woah there. I don’t embellish at all, pardner. My stories are one hundred percent authentic. I’ve seen a lot of weird shit Hanzo out in the desert. You haven’t seen anything yet.” 

“Hmph.” Hanzo rolls his eyes. “So you say.” 

Jesse wraps his arm around Hanzo’s upper back and pulls him into his chest. He tilts Hanzo’s head upward and lays a deep kiss upon his lips. 

“All I know, darlin’,” Jesse murmurs against Hanzo’s lips, “is that I’m happy that you gave me a chance to show you that my feelings are genuine.” 

“My mother and father would have been, perhaps, the least of your worries, Jesse. The elders, members of the family on either side... you would have had to convince each of them. Not an easy task.” 

“Appreciate your honesty, even if it’s the blunt truth.” Jesse runs his fingers absently through Hanzo’s hair. “Do you think Genji approves?” 

Hanzo snorts. “Is that even a question?”

“Well hey now. You never know. It’s one thing bein’ friends and jokin’ and laughin’. Big difference when your older brother’s in a bona fide relationship.” 

“You do not need to worry about how Genji feels. All he ever does is speak positively about you.” 

In addition to hearing about Angela Ziegler late into the evenings during the early months of their time in Twenty Nine Palms, Genji always went on and on about Jesse McCree, the “real life” cowboy saloon owner. 

“I assure you,” Hanzo adds, his cheeks blushing, “Genji takes great pleasure teasing his older brother over you. He likes to remind me how ‘good you are for me.’”

“Well darlin’, I do try.”

“Pfft.” 

Jesse smirks and sits up, bringing Hanzo with him. They rest against one another, idly exploring each other’s bodies with soft, tender caresses.

“That reminds me, Genji gave us a gift actually before we left town.” 

Hanzo blinks and his stomach drops. He has one guess for what this gift might be, and he imagines it’s right.

“I haven’t opened it yet. Haven’t had a chance. He said to make sure I open it with you.” 

Hanzo groans. Damn Genji. He watches as Jesse slides out of bed and digs into his satchel to retrieve it. He hates how his eyes immediately begin to wander across Jesse’s naked body on full display while he searches. He hates how his mouth waters at the sight of… 

“Oh, here we go! I’ll open the little note with it and read it outloud. You can open the package.” 

Hanzo makes a face, one he hopes equally masks his displeasure at Genji’s forward nature while also displaying it to warn Jesse. 

Instead, Jesse returns to the bed and hands him the small, rectangular box. He unfolds the note and begins to read it aloud:

“‘Dear Jesse, brother: I hope you both take your time in the desert to get closer with one another. Enclosed is a gift for you both that I believe will help you get to know one another better. Stay safe. Yours truly, Genji.’” Jesse lowers the letter and grins as bright as a light bulb. “Well hey that’s mighty kind of him, ain’t it?”

Hanzo’s stomach flips. Jesse nudges him playfully to start opening the wrapped package. Hanzo sighs. He tears at the flimsy paper and then reveals what he feared finding. 

“‘Devil’s Skin?’” 

Hanzo groans. He shoves the tin into Jesse’s hands, shakes his head, and looks away. He curses under his breath in Japanese. Couldn’t his brother just once, just this one time not mercilessly tease him? What did he do to deserve this? Couldn’t his brother have told Jesse what was in the packaging?

“Oh. Wait. I’ve heard about these from Amelie’s catalogs.” 

Hanzo glances back and his eyes widen. He sees that Jesse opened the tin and now inspects the contents, but that’s not what shocks him. He finds Jesse McCree staring back at him, beet red, completely caught off guard. 

“Well, I guess I should’ve opened the box a little, uh, sooner, huh?” Jesse smiles and lays a kiss on Hanzo’s cheek. “Guess there’s always next time.” 

“Later,” Hanzo murmurs before getting comfortable in the bed, closing his eyes, and falling asleep.

x X x 

_Meanwhile, four days later, back in Twenty Nine Palms…_

“How are you feeling, Mister Oxton?” 

Angela closes the door behind her and then turns to address Charles Oxton, who sits on her medical table underneath the lone light in her clinic. She looks him over, performing a quick analysis of his visible symptoms. He sits with a nervous tick, fidgeting uncomfortably, his hands trembling, his expression blank. His polished wooden cane leans against the wall, forgotten for now, while he rests. 

“Tired. Been a long day. Amelie said some of the children didn’t come to school today on account of being under the weather. I saw you running to and fro across town.”

Angela nods and smiles to herself. “It’s getting to be that busy time of year again.” 

Busy is an understatement. Not only have the marshals still not left town, a bad cough has spread amongst the school children and even some of the parents, Hana and Jack included. On her feet non-stop, bustling about, visiting homes on the outskirts of town, tending to the sick by offering remedies and a strict prognosis to get good rest. Of all her patients, the town sheriff had to be the worst--today alone she’s caught him anywhere other than his home. They got into two fights. One between her and Jack and then another one later in the day between her, Jack, and Gabriel, when his husband came to retrieve him from the general store while he followed the marshals around. Angela couldn’t help herself--she took some satisfaction seeing Gabriel drag Jack out of the store, slung over his shoulder like a rag doll, while Jack insisted he was healthy enough to walk on his own two feet. 

“I apologize for stopping by at the end of the day, I can come back tomorrow if--”

“No, no. Please, there’s no need to apologize, Mister Oxton.” Angela smiles despite feeling tired. “What seems to be the issue?”

“My knee’s been acting up,” Charles sighs. “I know the colder weather is partially to blame, but…” 

Angela immediately recalls the information from her small file on Charles Oxton--one of many records she keeps on all of her patients who visit regularly. He suffers from chronic knee pain as a result of a compound fracture that never healed properly after being infected. 

“Do you mind lifting your pant leg? We can look and see if there’s some swelling.” 

Charles nods and rolls up his right pant leg. Angela pulls her chair closer and gently presses her fingers into the joints of the knee and sees him wince. She runs her fingers over the small, curved scar at the base of his kneecap. 

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?” 

He shrugs and scratches her chin. “About a five or six, I suppose. Lena tells me I’ve been limping again. I’ve been dealing with this since back in Los Angeles.” 

Angela nods. “Have there been any significant changes in diet, physical activity?” 

“No, nothing new.” 

“Are you under any stress outside of the day to day?” 

He stares past her, his gaze fixated upon something behind her as if lost in his thoughts. He trails off into silence, and Angela has to clear her throat to get his attention.

“Well, Doctor, I… I’ve been thinking about the war, lately.” 

Angela pulls up a chair and sits across from him. 

“What about it?” 

“I traveled to the city because I wanted to see the other English soldiers who have immigrated to California. I wanted to participate in the creation of a memorial back in our old home village, that’s why I traveled all the way out there. Make no mistake, I felt it was necessary to be there, but…” He wrings his hands together, anxious, and his good knee fidgets. “Talking about what happened isn’t easy.” 

“I understand.” She can empathize with Charles. She herself struggles with talking about that time period. “Have you ever tried talking about that time with Ana, Jack, or Gabriel?” 

Angela knows better than to mention Reinhardt. She doesn’t know the explicit details about what happened to Charles in the war, but everyone in town knows he’s uneasy around Reinhardt. Old war anxieties. She doesn’t suggest his daughter either; parents typically refrain from sharing the details of wars they fought in with their children. 

He takes a deep breath. “Miss Ziegler, I don’t know… part of me would rather not share. I’d rather the people of this town not think ill of me or worse yet, as a coward. Lena doesn’t deserve that. My daughter already has so much on her plate.” He glances briefly at Angela. “I think the pain flares up most whenever I think about it.”

“Mister Oxton, you know no one would ever--”

“You don’t understand. When I met up with the other old soldiers, they all gathered around me like I was some hero. But I’m not, doctor. I’m a bloody coward.” 

His hand begins to shake violently, spasming as if he’s shivering. She reaches forward and covers his hand to try to help him calm down. The gesture helps, to an extent, but Charles draws back and crosses his arms, as if to shield himself. 

“During the war I was a Royal Air Force pilot who was shot down over Arras, France in April of 1917--what was eventually referred to as ‘Bloody April.’ We took severe casualties during the battle and I lost many good friends that month. As for myself, I… I can still hear the sound of the plane falling apart around me, the smell of burning fuel… I thought I was going to burn to death.” 

Charles swallows thickly and closes his eyes. Angela doesn’t rush him; he could stop at any time and she wouldn’t push him further. 

“I was trapped behind the enemy lines with shrapnel in my arm... broken bones like you wouldn’t believe. I was lucky enough to crawl out of the plane’s wreckage but I was eventually found, captured, interrogated by Germans. They weren’t particularly cruel soldiers, but they had their orders and an officer telling them to follow through. They knew I was once a pilot, and they assumed correctly that I would have information about the English war effort. Everyone wanted the war to end in those later years, everyone was willing to do whatever it took to end it. 

“They beat me when I refused to talk, and at first I refused out of loyalty to King and country. Eventually I realized that if I ever wanted to see my daughter, my Lena, again, if I wanted the beatings to stop... then I needed to talk and provide something of value to them. 

“It’s not like the English or French behaved any different, in the end. Only one side was able to claim a false sense of moral righteousness afterward. Part of me doesn’t care that we did the same. They did it to me, why shouldn’t we do it to them? I’m sure plenty of captured German soldiers broke too. And… I was about to break, but by sheer luck, I believe, I found the lock to my cell broken one day. I was able to escape, and I ran until I came across an envoy of Red Cross medics.” Charles pauses. “Part of me regrets visiting Los Angeles and seeing my old comrades, but Lena encouraged me to go. She said it would be good to see other former soldiers again from home. But they all clamored around me and called me all sorts of names--hero, knight, a champion for the King--as if my status as a prisoner made me worthy of some kind of recognition. I didn’t do anything. I dropped out of the sky after losing a skirmish with another pilot, I was captured, and I rotted in a cell for two months while everyone else fought and died in those awful trenches. I was about to confess. I was about to share military secrets, orders I had overheard, maps I had seen… That’s not heroism. It’s true cowardice.” 

“No matter what you were about to do, you survived. That is the greatest achievement of them all. You keep surviving every single day.” 

“It’s because of Lena and Amelie that I do.” He runs a hand over his face and sighs. “Some days I feel like I’m still in that cell or like I’m falling out of the sky waiting to hit the ground. Some days I don’t feel like I’m really here, present, in the moment. I know I didn’t come back from the war the same man. But I want to make what happened manageable. Lena already has to worry about Amelie’s health and looking after her. I cannot bear the thought of being an added burden to my own daughter. I want to see Lena grow up and be happy. I want to be around to watch her enjoy life, every moment. I want to watch her experience love and friendship. I have always wanted a better life for her, and I want to be part of it.” 

“Having a desire to be part of your family’s life instead of withdrawing is a good sign, Mister Oxton. It’s very brave, and I assure you, everything you have shared today will remain confidential between you and I.” Angela pauses. “However, I think you should give significant consideration to speaking with one of the other former soldiers residing in town. I think speaking with someone else may help you find new ways to cope with what you’re dealing with. If not, you will always be welcome to speak with me. In the meantime, I can write a prescription for you to deal with the pain and have it mailed to town. Would you like me to do that?”

“Yes,” he says with a frown. “If you think it will help. Is there anything that can be done to help me sleep better?” 

“I can prescribe medicine for that as well. How often do you have trouble sleeping?” 

“Most nights I experience some degree of insomnia, and if I do sleep, it’s usually unpleasant, restless. Often with nightmares.” 

“Well Mister Oxton, I believe we will be able to help manage your pain as well as your trouble sleeping. The medicine will likely take a few weeks to arrive, so until then, stop by my office once or twice a week, depending upon how you feel, just so we can see if there are any major changes to your health.” 

Charles nods. “Thank you.” 

“I’m here to help. Is there anything else I should know?” 

“I think that’s everything. I appreciate you listening, Doctor.” He collects himself and stands from his chair. He holds his cane to his chest and retrieves his hat and coat from her wooden clothing hanger. “I apologize again for stopping by so late.” 

“It’s no problem at all, Charles. Please, do not fret over that.” 

Angela walks him to the waiting room of her home clinic and opens the door for Charles, who puts his hat back on, steps onto her porch, and bows his head politely. He moves to leave and then turns back. 

“If possible, Doctor,” he murmurs, “do you think you could keep this visit between you and I? I know if Lena found out all she would do is worry, and I--”

“This visit will remain between you and I, but if your condition worsens, you need to be honest with your daughter. Don’t try to hide the status of your health from her. I worry you could hurt her by doing so--she cares about you, and keeping secrets can sometimes do more harm than good.” 

Charles listens and nods, but Angela worries he may not take that advice to heart. Parents always try to spare their children; she knows from her own experience that her own parents kept so much from her. 

“Thank you again, Doctor Ziegler.” 

Angela remains rooted to her wooden porch and watches him walk slowly down the main road of town toward his home. The sun has nearly fallen past the horizon, bathing the valley in hues of orange, purple, and red. The buildings cast long shadows, and in the distance, Angela sees the two marshals and their posse standing on the opposite side of town, leaning against the wooden frame of the sheriff’s office, ominous and foreboding. As far as she is aware, they are close to finishing their investigation into the affairs of Twenty Nine Palms. The sight of them leaves a sour taste in her mouth. Her gaze returns to Charles Oxton until he turns a corner and disappears from her line of sight. 

After a long day dealing with patients and avoiding the armed posse wandering around town as if they have the Bubonic Plague, Angela releases the deep breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She turns from the town, walks back into her home clinic, and almost jumps out of her skin. 

“Genji, mein Gott, you scared me!” 

Angela finds Genji sitting in one of the chairs resting by the window, looking out of it as he too watches the sun set. She presses her palm to her chest to calm down. 

His attention immediately snaps to her. “Angela, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

Genji usually made a habit of stopping by each evening for either a private dinner or to walk over to Jesse’s saloon together. Ever since the marshals arrived, he has had to stay around the saloon to tend to it in Jesse’s absence and to keep up the guise that it’s his bar, his home. She didn’t expect him to come while the marshals still remained in town. 

Angela raises a hand to rub at her temple, where she feels a painful migraine forming. She purses her brows and shakes her head. 

Genji stands from the chair and comes to her side with concern in his brown eyes. “I tried calling out from the kitchen, but you must not have heard me. I saw you were busy with a patient, so I thought to wait until your business had concluded.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Am I intruding?” 

“No, Genji,” she sighs, “it’s fine. I just wasn’t expecting you.”

“I was able to close up early. Gabriel offered to look after the saloon tonight. He said you were looking rather exhausted while visiting with Jack. He said you looked like you needed to see a doctor yourself, and I was worried. Have you had dinner? I can prepare something for you while you make yourself comfortable.”

“Genji, I’m fine, I can make my own dinner.”

“You have been working hard all day. You must be exhausted, I insist. I could draw you a warm bath, or perhaps if you would just like to freshen up, I’ll have something made for you when you come back down. ”

Angela waves him off. “I can take care of myself. Why don’t you take this time away from the bar to look after yourself?” 

“Because I came here to see you. I thought perhaps you would like to--”

“I spent all day seeing children who should be out playing and enjoying the day dealing with a terrible flu. I dealt with Jack’s stubbornness because he’s as sick as them and he thinks himself invincible when he is most certainly not. I’ve had to do all this while pretending everything’s fine, that everything is normal, because those horrible lawmen won’t leave.” She wraps her arms around herself and shakes her head. “I just want to be alone.”

Genji grows quiet. He visibly swallows and looks as if he’s contemplating whether or not he should speak again. 

“Angela, I…” 

“I’m fine, Genji, whatever Gabriel told you was wrong. I did have a busy day, yes, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t manage. I handled myself just fine before you came here.” 

Angela immediately regrets the words the moment they leave her lips. She notices him visibly flinch, her words cutting deep. She blinks at him, unmoving, and the words of remorse form on her tongue. _I’m sorry Genji, I’m not feeling like myself, you need to leave, just leave me alone, go before I keep hurting you._

“I am _well_ aware you are capable, Angela,” Genji says with stiffness in his tone. “But you have been stressed these past two weeks. I have heard what the others have been saying. You’ve been working non-stop to help with the illness that has been spreading--”

“It’s my _responsibility_ to take care of them, Genji, someone has to.”

“It’s also your job to look after yourself. Who will care for these people if you fall ill as well?” 

Angela moves to walk past him, suddenly feeling tired by their conversation, but Genji stops her by gently catching her by the forearm.

“I do not enjoy seeing you push yourself like this Angela. You do good work, and your compassion is honorable, but you need rest too.” He lowers his voice, and Angela can hear the worry in each word. “Please let me help you.” 

She tries to ignore the throbbing vein in her head, the sudden lurch of her empty stomach growling, and the tension in her shoulders. She wants to accept his help, she wants to confess all of the anger, frustration, and worry she has carried these past two weeks, but she can’t burden him. Unlike Charles, the confession does not escape the confines of her heart. Instead, she ignores the festering wound that has refused to heal. 

“Genji, you should be worrying about yourself, not me,” she says, flippant. “You shouldn’t be here. What if the marshals return to the saloon and see you aren’t there? They will ask questions, they will look around, and they could find something of Jesse’s, they could--”

“Angela, Gabriel gave me his word he would look after the bar and make sure no one pries further into Jesse’s life.” 

“Do you really think Gabriel could stop them?” She scoffs. “Those men are armed with guns, Genji, and they won’t hesitate to use them. You heard what was said. They want Jesse dead and they are not afraid of arresting anyone who impedes their investigation. They have the law on their side.” 

“You need to have faith in everyone else’s ability to look after each other. Whether it is the bar or their health, sometimes we have to trust others to manage while we rest and recuperate.” 

“You don’t understand. Why would you?” 

Angela wrests her arm from his hands and stalks towards her kitchen to start to make tea. She hears his soft footsteps behind her, and part of her wishes he would leave. She’s not thinking clearly. He is right, she is tired and frustrated, and she does not want him to see her like this. 

“Angela,” he says through gritted teeth. “I _do_ understand. You want the marshals gone, you want everything to return back to normal. We all do. That sentiment isn’t yours alone.” 

Angela does her best to ignores him. She fills her kettle, places it on the stove, and then struggles to light a match, striking the edge over and over in frustration until it lights. With the water heating up, she stands in her kitchen closed off, her arms folded across her chest, her gaze narrowly focused on the flickering flame beneath the kettle. 

“You have every right to be afraid, but I promise, nothing bad will happen so long as all of us are here looking out for each other. They will leave soon. Gabriel said they will be finishing up their investigation soon--”

“But what if they come back? What if they stay? Then your brother and Jesse will never be able to return. Jesse will never be safe, it’s never going to return to normal.” 

A chill runs down her spine. Her words echo in her thoughts. _It’s never going to return to normal._ She closes her eyes and holds herself tighter. In that moment of darkness, she sees a young girl standing in a door frame, bracing herself against the bitter winter cold, a large man with heartbreak in his blue eye, and a letter extended towards her. Her long vigil was over. They would never be coming back. Her life would never return to the way it had been. Buried in the snow, two crosses marking their final resting place, a place she would never be able to travel to while war still raged across Europe. 

Had her life ever truly returned to normal? Not even the large expanse of the Atlantic could separate her from her grief and lift the weight on her heart.

Arms wrap around her waist from behind. Angela wants to lean into him. She wants to close her eyes and forget everything that has happened since Jesse’s departure and escape the painful memories it has conjured. 

“We have to hold onto hope,” Genji whispers against her temple, but Angela can hear his strength waiver. 

The kettle starts to whistle, and Genji bends down to blow out the stove’s fire. He turns her in his arms, pulls her away from the heat of the stove, and cups her chin. His soft fingers stroke the curve of her jaw, and she wants to give into his comfort, she wants to let go, to forget, to look into his eyes and move on… 

“I will remain optimistic.” He leans forward, laying his forehead against hers. “I draw strength from believing in tomorrow. I--” 

“Not all of us are capable of compartmentalizing what happens to us.” 

The softly spoken words come out before Angela can think them through, before she can think of the consequences. A single tear rolls down her cheek. Once out in the open, she wishes she could take the words back. 

Genji steps back, recoiling from her as if he’s been burned. They stare at one another in silence, unmoving, frozen in space. She forgets to breathe in that silence, as if all the oxygen in the room has been extinguished. 

Genji stirs first. He blinks at her in shock and then runs a hand over his face, looking away from her. The muscles in his jaw tighten, his back straightens. He takes a deep breath and then meets her gaze with pursed brows. When he finally speaks, his tone is even, severe.

“Do _not_ presume to know how I deal with difficult situations. I do _not_ compartmentalize my feelings, and I do not compartmentalize my experiences.” 

Angela’s heart stops and then speeds up faster, pounding in her chest like a drum. She flexes her fingers and then wrings her hands together. Her throat feels dry and she swallows thickly. 

Genji paces back and forth, stewing in his thoughts, searching for the right words. He runs a hand through his black hair, gritting his teeth. Then, he stops walking abruptly and turns to face her again. 

“You do not have any idea of what I have been though. I have had to work hard throughout my life growing up in my brother’s shadow, and I have had to discover my own strength. I have had to learn to cope with my feelings and thoughts that went against the teachings of my clan. I have experienced the empty feeling of loneliness, and I have experienced the sorrow of loss just as you have. I have been betrayed and lied to. Cheated and scorned by my own family! I had to find other outlets for my frustrations and for my sorrow when my own brother cast me aside for two years after our father’s death!” 

Genji sighs. His face falls, his frown deepening, and to Angela he appears older than his youthful age. She has never seen him so upset, almost heartbroken, and the words of remorse form on her tongue, only to be cut off by him once more.

“There were so many moments where I tried to run and hide from my pain. There were so many moments where I wanted to lash out, but I held my tongue because no matter what, I still loved those who hurt me. The few times I lashed out at my brother, I regretted it, though part of me believes he deserves more lashings than I ever gave him.” 

Genji closes his eyes and then steels his gaze, penetrating whatever walls she futilely tried to build to protect herself.

“Angela, if anyone is compartmentalizing their feelings, I think it’s _you_.” He folds his arms across his chest and shakes his head. “You are in denial about what this all is really about. I know Jesse’s departure upset you. I know the marshals have been anything but kind to us all.” 

Genji steps forward, moving into her space again, the air between them electric. The silence bears tension so thick it’s like a fog. She slinks back until the backs of her knees bump against the wood of her counter. 

“We both know that the reasons for why you are upset have nothing to do with this town nor its people.” 

He waits, as if he’s expecting her to be forthcoming, but she falters. Finally, she whispers the only remaining lie at her disposal. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“ _Angela._ ” 

She doesn’t want to hear what he’s about to say. She can already hear it echoing in her thoughts, a death knell of truth she has been trying to avoid these past two weeks, these past several _years._ Genji knows her well, perhaps more than she knows him. 

“Don’t say it.” She closes her eyes. “Please.”

“I have to, because right now you are trying to run from what is really going on. You need to confront this. Don’t you understand? You need to stop running away from what happened to you all those years ago. Distance and time will not heal the wounds in your heart. Believe me, I have tried. They will only heal if you tend to them.” 

“I’m not trying to run from anything,” she utters.

“The parallels are clear. You are afraid that history will repeat itself. You were unable to save your parents who left and never returned from the war, and now, with Jesse, you are afraid you will lose him too, that he will never come back. History only repeats itself when you allow it to. If you become a slave to it. You never worked through the grief of losing your parents, you never confronted what happened. Perhaps you have convinced yourself of the belief that if you can ignore the gaping hole in your heart long enough, then maybe one day it will collapse upon itself and go away. It does not, Angela. Not until you confront what happened and work through your feelings to the point where you’re ready to move on. Your mother and father would not want you to continue torturing yourself over something you could not control.”

Genji embraces her, and Angela stands rooted in place, bound in chains she never realized were wrapped around her body. Her eyes start to water, her heart thuds painfully in her chest, her stomach twists into knots, and then the dams break. She grabs hold of him, fisting his shirt, clutching onto him as if she’s dangling from the edge of a cliff. She sobs into his chest, so broken by the truth that has haunted her these past two weeks. He holds her tighter, cooing to her softly, soothing her with murmured words of comfort. He runs his fingers over her golden hair, and Angela doesn’t understand how he could have the compassion to hold her after she said such terrible things to him.

“You shouldn’t be consoling me after the cruelties I said,” she whispers, defeated. She looks up into his eyes, her lip trembling, and her voice cracks. “I’m sorry. I’m no different than those people who hurt you before, I’m so sorry, Genji, I…” 

“Angela, I understand, believe me, I do. I meant what I said, but I am sorry I expressed it so harshly. I care about you and it pains me to see you this upset. I want to help.” He rubs her shoulders. “But I cannot help you if you are unwilling to confront what’s bothering you as well.” 

He pauses, and Angela knows he’s waiting for her to speak. She tries to hide in his arms, running still from what gnaws at her heart, but this time, Genji catches her.

“Tell me what happened, everything you remember.” 

Angela hesitates. She closes her eyes and sees Reinhardt standing in entrance of her dormitory. He stands with his back to the cold, his heart in his hands, cradling the dirty, wrinkled letter her parents had been unable to enclose properly inside of an envelope. 

“I was just entering boarding school when the war broke out,” she begins, her voice hollow. “On the first day, my mother and father visited me to say goodbye before they boarded a train that would take them to the front lines. They said they would write to me often, that they would always keep me in their thoughts. My father promised they would come back long before I would eventually transition to medical school. My mother said they would come before I even noticed their absence. They believed what everyone else initially thought. All of the military officials said the war would be over by Christmas holiday, and I believed it too. I had such high hopes. Three years passed, and then I began medical school. As the war dragged on, I thought if I studied hard, if I excelled enough as a student, perhaps I would graduate and be able to join them on the field. I loved them and all I wanted was for them to be proud of me.” 

Angela bites her lip, stifling another sob. “One evening, one of the other girls in the dormitory called for me from downstairs, telling me a man was there to see me. I did not stop to consider that my life was about to be forever changed. I saw Reinhardt standing there in the doorway, and I knew. I knew they were gone without knowing who he was or what the letter he delivered said. I knew from the look in his eyes. I-I didn’t read the letter, not immediately. I couldn’t bear to read their goodbyes. And as I told you before, I dropped out of medical school. 

“Reinhardt kept in touch during the war. After it ended, he offered the chance to travel with him, Ana, Fareeha, and Torbjörn to America. I accepted because all I wanted to do was run. You’re right. I _ran_. I read the letter on the ship we took and I never asked how Reinhardt acquired the letter, and in turn he never shared. I never talked to him or Ana about what happened. I couldn’t, because I feared that if I did, I would one day let mother and father go, that I would lose my memories of them as time passed. That I would forget what my father’s smile looked like or the exact sound of my mother’s voice. I was afraid that if I moved on from my grief it would mean they were really gone, that I really would never see them again, and I would be alone again.” 

“You _never_ have to give up the memories you have of your parents. You will always have them, and you will always have their love even in death.” He takes a deep breath. “I know you feel guilt over their deaths. I know what it’s like to feel like a bystander in the face of loss, wondering what more could have been done to protect the ones we love. Unfortunately we cannot always be there. Some things are simply out of our control.” 

“I’m afraid of leaving them behind. I left our the home, I left their belongings behind, I left their friends and their colleagues behind without word, and I’m… I’m scared of losing them, Genji.”

“Tell stories about them. Share your memories with others. They passed on their knowledge to you, and you will carry on their legacy. Remember the love they gave you.” He takes her hands into his own. “Accepting that their deaths happened does not mean you will be suddenly alone. There are still people who love you, and your parents would not want you to mourn them to the point where you forget to live your own life.” 

Angela listens to his words, and they pierce through the walls around her heart. She squeezes his hands, needing to feel him there. She did lose her parents in the war, but despite that loss, she found friendship in Reinhardt and his family. She found a new home, new purpose, and then new friends along the way. Then, she found Genji. Her mother and father would want her to be happy. For the first time since their deaths, she has resolution.

“Thank you. I know you’re right.” 

Angela leans away and cups his cheek. Their eyes meet, blue to brown, and she searches his features only to find sadness. He too spoke of pain. She has only ever seen him this morose once: when he spoke of his mother dying to consumption. 

“Let me ease your burdens, Genji,” she whispers, “as you have eased mine.”

Genji nods and lets out a deep breath. “I do know what it’s like, Angela, feeling consumed by guilt. Regret. A fear of inaction. I was a young boy when we lost our mother, and I felt helpless in the face of her illness. But I was older when we lost our father.” He pauses and looks uncharacteristically lost, in his own memories she presumes. “I know I have mentioned before that our father died, but what I did not share was that our father was murdered, stabbed through the chest. I alone witnessed it first hand. By complete accident.”

Angela’s eyes widen. “Mein Gott.” 

“I walked in on an argument one night while wandering the halls of our home. I hid behind a tall lantern in the middle of our family’s dojo. At first I did not know who my father argued with, but then I heard the other man’s voice clearly and peeked around the corner. My father stood across from the man who had served as Hanzo and I’s mentor all our lives, Minoru Matsushita. They discussed our future. Matsushita wanted a different future for me, explaining I was undisciplined, too reckless, unfit for any significant leadership role in our clan. My father argued in my favor, believing I would outgrow my boyhood recklessness. 

“The argument only escalated further as they continued to disagree, and then it became personal between them, more than just business. My father’s clarity was put into question, and thus, he challenged our mentor to a duel. Matsushita agreed, and so they fought. But our mentor had no intention of letting my father walk away alive, let alone fighting fairly. I saw him kill my father, impaling him upon his own sword. He cleaned his blade on my father’s clothes and then left, as if he had never been there at all. I stood there behind that lantern, watching my father bleed to death, and I was too afraid to call out for help, to chase down my mentor and fight him. I was so young and so scared, but I was a coward.”

Genji scoffs and balls his hands into fists. “I felt betrayed. He was no stranger, no hired assassin. The man who killed our father was family, the man who had trained Hanzo and I for years. He ate our table beneath the roof of my father’s empire, and he took everything from us. The man who always seemed so wise, so poised, powerful in his own regard. It shattered me. 

“After that, my relationship with Hanzo was never the same. We tried, him and I, but we were no longer boys. We started to argue more. I said terrible things to him in the years following father’s death. Hanzo had to manage his grief and the responsibilities of the clan, and I used to think he didn’t feel anything. I called him heartless for moving on so quickly from our parents deaths. I even accused Hanzo of being happy our father had died since it had allowed him to inherit his birthright at a young age. I was too blind by my own sadness that I failed to see how much stress and hurt Hanzo carried. We drifted apart.” 

He hesitates before continuing, stewing in his thoughts. “I could not tell Hanzo what I had seen. I knew it would kill Hanzo to know our father’s murderer was a man he had looked up to for guidance. I could not confess to the elders either because I feared no one would believe me. I had no proof, no evidence other than what I had seen. I could not face the truth so I pretended I saw nothing, and it slowly ate away at me.

“So I threw myself into hedonism. I used to sneak out of the castle walls into the neighboring towns. I drank heavily. I slept with men and women I met in brothels. I did so to irritate Hanzo, to sully our name, but I enjoyed it as well. Even in my self-loathing, I loved it. I enjoyed making my brother worry, I liked making him and our elders upset and embarrassed by my actions. I did not care for my own well-being, because I used to think I deserved to be scorned by my family for my inaction. When my father lay at the brink of death I stood by, watched, and did nothing. Everything that followed that moment was my fault. I needed to fill the hole in my heart with something, anything, because I could not live with the emptiness.”

Genji’s words take her breath away. Her heart clenches in her chest, and her grip on his shirt tightens. The thought of Genji purposefully throwing himself into dangerous situations just to feel something, anything, saddens her, but she knows that feeling well. She doesn’t care if he had previous lovers, even if the thought of it makes her blush. What’s more important to her is his health, and how he’s come to heal from what happened to him.

Angela caresses his cheek and brushes a dark strand of hair out of his eyes. “Genji, that wasn’t your fault.”

“Perhaps not, but in many ways I felt complicit in his death for a long time.” He trails off, thoughtful, and then looks into her eyes. “I believe our pain is no different. I wish I had not seen my mother slowly fade away due to illness. I wish I had not seen my father’s death before my eyes. I wish I could erase it entirely from my memory, to have such fates be left to the unknown.” Genji smiles at her, sadly, and he covers the hand on his cheek with his own. “But I guess as they say, Angela, the grass is always greener on the other side.” 

The words sink deep into her heart. Genji’s right. They each wish for the same thing: closure. He wishes he hadn’t seen his parents die, and Angela wishes often that she had been there, as if her presence might have saved her parents. 

“I… I understand, now. I am so sorry for what I said. I was cruel, Genji, and I apologize for letting my anger and stress come between us. I behaved poorly.” Angela feels tears prick at the corners of her blue eyes until her vision swims. “Oh Genji, can you forgive me?” 

“I can, Angela,” he presses a kiss to her forehead. “I do forgive you, and I hope that you can forgive me as well. I want you to know that you count on me, Angela. I care for your deeply and I want to be there for you. I’m not going anywhere. This is my home now, and I meant it when I said I would be by your side through these difficult times so long as you would have me. If… if that has changed, please tell me, and I will respect your wishes.” 

“Genji, I want you in my life. I want to move forward together. I want you to know my secrets, to know me better than anyone else, and I…” Her heart hammers in her chest, swelling with confidence and newfound strength. She speaks from the heart, with conviction, “I want you to know that you can rely upon me. You can count on me. You deserve compassion and kindness, and I will do better to show you my sincerity. I want to know what ails your heart so that I can do what I can to mend it and ease your sorrow.” She returns his smile, and she moves into his arms, embracing him. She lays her head against his chest and murmurs, “I am a doctor, after all.” 

“You are. A most fine one at that.” 

Angela giggles. She closes her eyes and grips his shirt, feeling the muscles beneath his clothes. He holds her close, and for the first time in two weeks, she breathes easier. 

“Please do not tell Hanzo about what I shared. I am not sure if I will ever tell him, or if I will take what I saw to the grave, but it is best for him to never know the truth.” 

“I promise, Genji, this will stay between us.” 

He leans close and lays a kiss upon her forehead. “Thank you for understanding.” 

They hold each other. After a long discussion, silence occupying the space between them comes as a relief, a compliment to the comfort of their embrace. It was their first fight. Her parents sometimes did not agree, but they made it through their arguments stronger as a married couple.

“Are we alright, Genji?” Angela asks, breaking the silence with a whisper. She leans away to stare up into his eyes. 

“Yes, we are.” 

Angela’s gaze flickers from his eyes to his lips, and she takes a deep breath. She leans forward, tentative, and brushes her lips against his. Genji returns the kiss, soft, gentle.

When they break away, they blink at one another, and something new blossoms inside of Angela. His fingers move up and down her arm, sparks passing between them, and she bites her lip. She splays her palm against his chest, over his heart, and she can feel its beat. He studies her, breathing heavily, and Angela can see words forming on his tongue. 

Before he can whisper them, she kisses him again, harder, and her arms wrap around his neck. Genji responds by pressing her into the kitchen’s counter, lifting her up onto the edge, and moving between her legs. Her long brown skirt hikes up her calves, and his hands hold her by her waist, his grip possessive. He swallows her moan, and then his lips are everywhere--her ear, her temple, her bared neck. Never before has she felt so smothered in kisses, so delightfully vulnerable with him between her legs. 

“Genji,” Angela moans when his mouth lingers upon the sensitive flesh of her collarbone, right at the hem of her blouse. She licks her lips, tasting him there, and she closes her eyes to savor the ticklish sensation of his tongue drawing patterns across her skin. She fists the collar of his shirt and tugs him upward for another kiss. 

Afterward, Genji insists she go upstairs and draw a bath while he finishes preparing their tea. Angela acquiesces after whispering another apology into his skin, and she heads up the creaking stairs to her bath. She fills her bathtub with warm water and flower petals Amelie ordered for her from one of her special catalogues. She undresses and puts on her silky green robe while she waits. Their conversation from before plays through her mind over and over, and despite their argument, she feels better. Stronger, no longer feeling alone. 

Once it finishes filling, she hears a knock on her bedroom door and Genji asks for permission from the other side. She calls for him to come in, and she sees him walk into her small bathroom with two cups of ceylon tea and the book he bought for her while in the valley. 

“Thank you, Genji, but you didn’t have to.” 

“I wanted to. You worked hard all day. You need rest.” He smiles and shrugs. He leaves the tray with the tea on the narrow counter. “I thought you could enjoy your tea with your bath, and I could take this time to catch up to where you are in the book.” 

Angela reaches out to him before he can leave. Genji glances back, surprised, with his brow quirked upward. This time, she catches Genji’s gaze wandering up and down her form.

“I-I thought if you were interested,” she stammers, “perhaps you could join me.”

Genji blushes and reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. “Angela, I couldn't… you deserve your privacy, I…” 

“You need to relax too,” she insists. “You worked all day as well at the saloon. I _want_ you to join me. Besides, you need to wash before you even think of crawling into bed with me.” 

Genji laughs, and Angela knows she could never tire of hearing its cadence. 

“You make a strong argument, Angela. Alright, very well. I will join you.” 

Now that he has agreed, Angela steps closer and begins to undress him. First, she unclasps the buttons of his white shirt and pushes it off of his shoulders. Then, the belt at his waist and he removes his trousers. Layer upon layer of clothing, until they each only wear one remaining piece. 

Genji tugs at the sash of her robes and pulls it loose until it gives. He parts the opened garment as if it’s the Red Sea bending to his will. Porcelain skin slowly becomes revealed as he widens the gap further, his fingers faintly brushing against her, and then the garment falls from her shoulders. He is the first man to ever look upon her naked form.

Angela burns beneath his gaze, which roams her body. She doesn’t shy away from eye contact. She wants him to see her, to long for her, to fantasize about her as she has thought of him. He hasn’t fully touched her but she can almost feel the phantom sensation of his hands upon her. She pulls her hair free from its tie, and it cascades down her back. The thick steam from the hot water makes her skin warm to the touch, with a thin sheen of sweat.

Though lust pools in his eyes, Angela sees fondness, too. She has never felt so wanton, so attractive, so wanted, but he remains a gentleman waiting for her direction. Angela reaches out and tugs him by the waistband of his gray undergarments. She hooks her fingers into the hem and pulls them off of his body until he’s as naked as her. 

They stare at one another in silence, and Angela finds her own focus wandering downwards. Her legs shift, and she blushes brightly. Her eyes linger upon the intricate green and yellow dragon tattoo running along the length of his right arm. 

“Perhaps we should enjoy this water and the tea before they grow cold?” Genji asks, his grin playful. He caught her staring. 

Angela nods, too flustered to speak, and she slides into the basin of warm water. Genji hands her one of the cups and hangs a washcloth on the rim before joining her on the opposite end with his own cup of tea. 

At first they enjoy their drink in silence, but then Genji strikes up conversation about the book they’re reading. It’s distraction enough to keep their bath chaste. Angela focuses on the warmth of the water, the sweet smell of the rose petals in the water, and the tranquil sound of his voice. She closes her eyes, listening, and all of her worries and fears about the town fade away. 

They finish their tea, and then Genji offers on a whim to wash her body. She agrees, and he pulls her flush into his lap with her back against his chest. 

“Relax, Angela,” he whispers into her ear. He lathers up the washcloth with a bar of sweet smelling soap and then begins to clean her body, inch by inch. He kisses the back of her neck, and she melts into his arms, completely boneless. 

When it’s Genji’s turn to be washed, she reverses her position to face him. She takes the cloth from him and starts to wash his legs. She returns the gesture and kisses him, hot, open-mouthed, with her tongue stroking his. He groans into their kiss when her fingers accidentally brush against his length. 

When it’s time to wash his chest, she foregoes the cloth, this time using her soapy hands. Fire sparks in his brown eyes as she touches him with her bare palms. She’s seen Genji shirtless in the past, but this time, with the new information about his past, it’s a different experience for Angela. This time she sees scars on his body she overlooked before. Thin lines, raised skin, a burn scar on his lower hip. 

She needs him, she realizes, and the thought leaves her dizzy. She’s never asked this of anyone, never met anyone she wanted to share these experiences with… but with Genji, it’s different. They have talked about it before, weeks ago, and to her amusement, he was surprised to hear how forthcoming she was on the topic of intimacy. She was trained to be a doctor after all. She knows the technical, scientific details, and she had a mother, after all, a woman who told her stories and offered advice about relationships and marriage before she left for university. 

Angela musters the courage. She knows what she needs, and she refuses to over-analyze this further. She drowns her thoughts in kisses, with soft whimpers passing her lips when his fingers thread into her hair. Genji sucks on her lip, parts her mouth. He gently holds her hair and arches her neck, baring herself to him. 

“I… I want you so badly,” she moans between kisses. She licks her lips and tries to stifle her own nervousness. “I have never done this Genji. I know what happens, but...”

“I know,” he whispers into her ear. He kisses the lobe and then adds. “I have an idea.” Their eyes meet. “Do you trust me?” 

“Yes.” 

After their earlier conversation, there’s no doubt in her mind at all. Angela does trust him, and he trusts her. To carry each other's secrets if they must. 

They carefully step out of the bath basin and dry off. They help each other dress--Angela’s favorite pastel blue nightgown and only a pair of trousers for Genji. Genji sweeps her off of her feet and carries her into the bedroom, where he lays her down upon the firm mattress. They have spent so many evenings here together, reading to one another, talking, laughing, learning about each other. This space has become just as much his over the past several months. 

“Lay back,” he tells her, “make sure you’re comfortable.” 

Angela fluffs her pillow and then lays against her white sheets. She keeps her eyes on him and folds her hands over her stomach, where they clasp and unclasp. 

Genji covers her hands with his own. “Relax. Take a deep breath. Now, are you sure you want this, Angela?” 

“Yes,” she says, her voice sounding more desperate than she expected it to her own ears. “I… I mean, take this slowly, Genji.” 

“I promise I will. If you ever want me to stop, tell me, and I will.” 

Angela licks her lips, swallows hard, and trembles in anticipation. She nods quickly, and Genji lays down beside her. He partially leans over her, and he kisses her, bringing her racing thoughts to a halt. A warm, soft hand wanders down her clothed body, paying playful attention to her chest. His fingers tease the stiff peaks of her breasts, and then they move lower. Her breath hitches, catching in her throat. She can’t believe this is happening.

They pull apart when his hand jumps from her stomach to her knee. Genji studies her face, cautious for signs of discomfort, but he finds none. She’s a quivering mess as he nudges her legs apart. With her legs spread, his fingers slip under the hem of her nightgown, slowly, too slowly, moving upwards. His nails graze the sensitive flesh of her thigh, drawing lazy circles, then upward further. 

When Genji touches the edges of her folds with his forefinger, the sensation is completely unexpected. Pleasure ripples through her body in waves as he explores her. 

“Does this feel good, Angela?” 

She moans her approval, earning an amused chuckle from Genji. She feels exposed despite being clothed. Her eyes close but she can still feel his gaze burn upon her. The nightgown grows stifling as Genji strokes rhythmically without breaking pace. 

Then, he runs his fingers through her curls while his thumb caresses her pearl. When he begins speaking to her, Angela blushes feverishly from her cheeks down to her neck. He whispers sweet-nothings in both English and Japanese, and his voice is completely hypnotic, seductive in its power over her. She slumps into her bed, melting like snow, and her loose hair frames her head like a halo.

When Genji moves to slip his forefinger inside of her, Angela grabs hold of his wrist. “Wait,” she utters. Before he can slink away, Angela opens her eyes and explains, “Don’t misunderstand me, Genji. I want that… but I think it’s only fair that I reciprocate.”

Genji laughs sheepishly. Seeing this suave, sophisticated man grow flustered is a rare sight--one she wishes to see more of. 

“Angela, while that is kind of you, I would never ask of you to--”

“Why not?” She asks, her eyes half-lidded. “Your restraint is admirable, but I want us both to experience this together. I felt you in the bath,” her eyes flash down to the tent in his trousers, then back up to his eyes, “and I can see plainly that you desire me.” 

“I do, Angela,” he tells her without doubt. 

“Then let me help you.”  
Genji remains still, his hand idle between her legs, as Angela unbuttons his trousers. Despite momentary hesitation, she brings him into her palm, the faintest contact sends a shiver down their spines. Her thumb draws circles around the head, tentative, and then her forefinger glides down the length. She smears a trail of precum between her fingers, and Genji shudders when her hand wraps around him. Angela listens closely to each grunt and sigh, and each time a lewd noise slips past his lips, shivers run down her spine. 

To Angela, it’s almost therapeutic. Tuning in to her partner’s body--his every expression, his every response--sends her into the clouds, into a realm of relaxation she has never experienced before.She takes him by the wrist and encourages him to continue with her. 

Genji sinks his forefinger inside of her, filling her, and he moves it in and out slowly. He studies her with as much care she afforded him, and he only adds another finger with her permission. 

They explore one another, first slow, evenly paced, and then as time passes, their actions grow more frantic, more desperate. Genji kisses her, swallowing every shudder, echoing her softest gasps with his own.

“Angela, are you…” 

Angela can’t speak and only nods. Pleasure radiates throughout her body, every breath deep, ragged, and the heat seems insatiable. Genji presses his warm forehead to hers, pushes locks of golden hair out of her eyes, and shares hot breath. His pace quickens, and his finger buries deeper, carefully curling inside of her. 

“Don’t stop,” she whimpers, her body arching into his, her hand ceasing to stroke his cock. Her legs start to buckle, and her eyes fall half-lidded, and he brings her to her first climax. Angela cries out in broken German, his name uttered as if it’s a prayer. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers, pushing her to ride the blissful wave of ecstasy. She melts into the sheets, her thighs trembling, her toes curling against his. 

When Angela recollects herself, she opens her eyes and tilts her head to look into his brown ones. She places her palm upon his bare chest and pushes him onto his back to roll partially over him. Her hand begins to stroke the hard cock resting against his stomach while she lays open-mouthed kisses across his shoulders and neck. She wants his body to be riddled with evidence of her feelings for him. She wants her love-marks to mingle with the old scars on his body. 

Genji jerks his hips upward, desperate for friction, as she varies the speed and pressure of her fingers and palm. He isn’t far, she realizes, when he grunts her name, the sound guttural. Her strokes quicken, and she brings him to release. Genji stiffens beneath her as hot, white cum spurts onto his chest and slides over her fingers. 

Angela’s never seen anything like it. With her cheeks as red as tomatoes and with wide eyes, she stares down at him, marveling at the way his chest rises and falls with each panted breath. His skin has grown as flush as hers, his body warm and tender to the touch. 

“How did I do?” She asks with a shy smile. Ever the perfectionist, she hopes she gave as well as he did. 

“Mmm,” Genji hums. He wraps his arm around her waist and runs his hand up and down her back over the cotton of her nightgown. “Better than I imagined.” 

“Good. I… I enjoyed that.” 

Genji smirks. He toys with the tips of her blonde hair and winks at her. Angela resists rolling her eyes playfully. Even splayed beneath her, coming down from his high, he’s cocky. Angela knows he has every right to be. 

They share a slower, softer kiss, and then they each slip out of bed to clean up for bed. Afterward, they crawl back into their sheets, and Genji grabs the novel off of the nightstand. He starts flipping to the page he left off, and Angela curls into his arms. She draws absent minded circles across his skin, feeling the muscles of his abdomen and pectorals, and even now, after what they just did, she cannot believe someone as amazing as Genji wants her. 

“Thank you for stopping by, Genji,” she whispers into the curve of his neck. “I suppose I will have to find a way to thank Gabriel for giving you the night off.” 

“I imagine he may want someone to look after Hana once Maria heads off to university. He mentioned he wanted to take Jack out riding once he felt better and they had the time.” 

“Hmm. That sounds like a good idea.” Angela searches for his hand and squeezes it. “We should go on a picnic sometime.” 

“I would love to.” 

Genji clears his throat and then starts to read aloud. Even though Angela has read ahead, she doesn’t mind hearing the earlier content of the novel again. Genji’s storytelling abilities rival none other, even Jesse’s. The sound of his voice, the way he brings each character to life… 

_Knock, knock._

They both sit up at the same time. Angela glances at the ticking clock on her wall and sees it’s past eleven in the evening. 

“It’s rather late to be stopping by…” Angela trails off and then adds, “Unless it’s an emergency.” 

Genji nods, but his body has grown tense, defensive. It could be anyone at her door. “I’ll go look at who it is.” 

Genji slips out of bed first and doesn’t bother putting on his shirt. Angela follows after him, slipping her robe over her nightgown. She stands at the base of the stairs as he goes to peer out through the white curtains veiling her window. 

“Who is it?” She murmurs. 

Genji doesn’t glance away from the window. “It is Ana. It appears she is alone.” 

Angela’s heart begins to race. She doesn’t like Genji’s second comment, even if it’s an observation they have to acknowledge. They cannot trust the marshals. They cannot be gullible. What if Ana had a pistol on her? The thought makes her stomach twist into knots. Her anxieties begin to run rampant again. Why would Ana be visiting her this late at night? She comes to her front door but Genji raises a hand. 

“Let me.” _Just in case._

Angela swallows hard. Genji opens the door and they find Ana standing alone, wearing a heavy coat and a scarf. The evening air penetrates through Angela’s robe and nightgown, forcing her to hold her arms against herself. There’s an unsettling feeling of deja-vu. 

“Mrs. Amari.” 

Ana stands with her hands clasped behind her, and she carries herself like an old soldier. She doesn’t hesitate. 

“Al-tikraar Ye'alem Al-shotaar.” 

“‘Repetition improves the skilled.’” 

The three of them immediately sigh in relief. In the planning stages of ushering Jesse out to safety, Ana taught them all this phrase to say in Arabic to one another to signify they were not under coercion. It helped ease anxieties and made them feel safer, closer. 

Genji steps aside and lets Ana in from the cold. The older woman immediately glances toward Angela, and she narrows her brows in suspicion. Of course Ana would know with just one brief glance. 

“Am I interrupting?” 

“Not at all, Mrs. Amari. We were just reading.” 

Ana snorts. “Ah, yes. ‘Reading.’ Of course.”

They aren’t exactly hiding what they did this evening, Angela realizes with a blush. Genji’s chest and neck has red marks all over it. 

Angela clears her throat. “Please, come in. Relax. I can brew some tea.” 

“No, there’s no need. I will not be long. Reinhardt and Fareeha are expecting me home. I came by to tell you that the marshals are leaving tomorrow at dawn. They have concluded their investigation.”

Genji and Angela turn to one another and smile. It’s good news after all. 

“That’s wonderful to hear. Finally, some good news.” 

“Yes, very much so. Gabriel will be riding out in two days to tell Jesse and Hanzo. We’re waiting to make sure the marshals are holding their word and departing.” 

“Understandable.” 

Ana turns to Angela, and she places a gentle hand upon her shoulder. “You did well. Hold together just a little longer.” 

After two weeks of silence and dread haunting their home, there’s a light at the end of this tunnel. Jesse will be able to return. 

“Now, I hope you don’t mind, I’m going to head home. It’s rather chilly tonight, and I would like to get back to my husband--we were reading a rather hefty novel.” 

Angela and Genji both glance at one another and blush. She clears her throat and offers a relieved smile. “Thank you for stopping by Ana.” 

“Of course, Angela. Do you mind if I speak with Genji for a moment? Reinhardt wanted me to pass on information about a project they are working on.” 

Angela nods. “By all means. I’ll be upstairs.” 

“I won’t keep him long.” 

“Goodnight Mrs. Amari. Say hello to Reinhardt and Fareeha for me.” 

Angela returns back up her stairs, feeling more elated than moments before when they heard knocking. She reaches her bedroom but presses her ear to the wall, hoping to overhear their conversation. 

“Take good care of her, Genji. I see you both are moving into a new type of relationship. Be sure to communicate with her. Angela sometimes forgets her own health and feelings. Look after her.” 

“I promise I will do my best. I care for her, deeply, I…” 

Angela returns to her bed to wait for him. She lays back against her sheets, warming them for his return, and she can’t help but give in to the overwhelming happiness she feels. 

She hears footsteps from the hall, and then Genji appears. He joins her in bed and pulls her into his arms. 

After two weeks of strife, after years of bearing her guilt and grief Angela knows the joy of hope once more.

x X x 

_Two days later, in the heart of the Mojave Desert…_

After riding all morning through mountainous terrain, Jesse and Hanzo finally reach their destination--a cluster of hot springs nestled in the westernmost foothills of the desert. 

Jesse slides off of Wildfire, his horse, and then pats her mane. He looks over his shoulder after hearing a grunt. He sees Hanzo pulling his saddle bags off of Bo-Yeong, Hana’s palomino, who seems more interested in nudging her rider for her lunch. 

“Hana absolutely spoils her.” 

Hanzo smiles and rubs the horse’s snout. “She seems very happy with Jack and Gabriel.” 

“I’ll say. They love her to pieces.” Jesse slings his pack over his shoulder and gestures for his companion to follow along. “Spring’s just around this here bend.” 

He recalls the last time he made camp at this site over a year ago, before Hanzo and Genji came to town. He had stopped here to settle for the night and to let Wildfire rest after a long ride. He knew of these springs from stories shared by Jack and Gabriel, who came here off and on for Gabe’s lungs. God knows they travel here for more than just their health, even if they deny it to Hell and back.

The air is indeed thinner, cooler, and cleaner, as they had described. The warm sun shines down upon them, and Jesse’s glad they’re about to wash up after the sweat they’ve worked up. 

“Hope you’re ready to relax, Hanzo. I sure as Hell need it.” 

Up ahead, they see the glitter of the steaming spring, with rocks, and low lying brush circling it. Jesse drops his gear to his feet and starts to pull off his clothes one piece at a time. He nudges Hanzo beside him, who nudges back with a smirk. Jesse knows how badly they need this experience. 

Once naked, they each slide into the hot spring, each releasing a sigh of relief. 

“Ah, yeah, I forgot how good this felt,” Jesse purrs. He submerges into the water, wetting his hair, and then comes up for air. He runs his fingers through his hair, slicking it back, and he hums in contentment. He can already feel his muscles beginning to relax. Every worry and fear evaporates like steam from his conscious. He listens to the world around him--birdsong, the breeze rustling through nearby trees, the call of a hawk. He wishes they could stay out here forever. 

When Jesse hears a low moan, he opens his eyes. He sits across from Hanzo, who arches his back and slouches in complete submission to the heat around then. His eyes fall half-lidded as he stares up at the sky. To Jesse, it’s as if Hanzo’s putting it all on display for him like a goddamn siren. Sprawled out over the rocks, loose strands of black hair in his eyes. Jesse’s gaze wander up and down Hanzo’s exposed torso, where water slides down his body. Jesse licks his lips at the sight. Perky nipples, flushed skin, his indigo tattoo glistening with small droplets of water. 

“How ya feelin’ there, pardner?” 

“Pleasant.” 

Jesse slowly moves through the water to stand in front of Hanzo, between his spread bare legs. His mouth waters at the sight of those tasty pectorals. To Jesse, they look awfully lonely, like they could use a good kiss. 

“You just rest there sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

Hanzo nods and releases a deep, guttural sound of approval. It’s all the permission Jesse needs. He splays his palms against Hanzo’s torso, squeezes gently, and then buries his face into his chest. His beard scratches against the sensitive skin, and beneath him, Hanzo trembles. 

“You look mighty fine all sprawled out like this, Hanzo,” he whispers. He begins to lay wet kisses over the soft, warm expanse, and he lingers upon each nipple, giving each a tug with his teeth. 

“Mmm.”

Jesse smirks. “Oh, you like that?” 

“It seems we have found a way to put your mouth to proper use.” 

Jesse leans away and looks up at Hanzo, whose eyes have fallen shut. Those words are a challenge. A clear one. His pulse quickens. 

“You say that now, Hanzo… but I’ve got plenty of tricks up my sleeve.” Jesse chuckles. “Metaphorically speaking, o’course.” 

“We shall see.” 

“Turn around and I’ll show you what I mean.” 

Hanzo opens his eyes and raises a brow, giving him an inquisitive look. 

Jesse feels goddamn impish. He gestures with his fingers for Hanzo to turn.

“There we go.” Jesse wraps his arms around Hanzo’s waist and grinds his cock against his ass. “Now, darlin’, I’m gonna need ya to get on your hands and knees here. Just at the edge of the spring.” 

Hanzo glances over his shoulder, blushing, and Jesse kisses his cheek. After hesitating to move, Hanzo pulls himself out of the spring and onto the edge on his hands and knees. Jesse steps closer and places his hands upon Hanzo’s cheeks, taking a fistful of each. 

“Perfect. Absolutely goddamn perfect. You’re doing great.” 

“What are you doing?”

Jesse laughs deeply. “I’m gonna put my mouth to better use and show you something new. That alright?”

“Y-Yes.” 

Jesse spreads Hanzo apart and then leans close. He licks his lips again, his mouth watering. He’s wanted to do this for so long. Fantasized about it, and what a mess it made him. 

“Just relax,” he soothes. “I promise this will feel good.” 

Jesse presses kisses to the base of Hanzo’s spine, kisses that gradually move downwards. 

“What--What are you--” Hanzo cuts himself off with a deep, satisfied moan. 

Jesse grins. He lays another feather-light kiss against Hanzo’s entrance and then sticks out his tongue to draw circles around it with the tip. He flattens his tongue, stroking Hanzo with long, tantalizingly slow licks up from his perineum, then down again. 

“You like this, Hanzo?” Jesse asks between kisses. 

“Y-Yes.” 

Jesse groans. He digs his fingers into Hanzo’s ass and then gives it a smack. Hanzo trembles beneath him and gasps. “Louder, Hanzo.” He smacks again, leaving the flesh a deep pink color. 

Jesse feels like he has to restrain himself; he wants to please Hanzo, to satisfy him, to take things slow and at Hanzo’s pace, but he also wants to devour his lover to his heart’s content. He bites into the sensitive flesh of Hanzo’s cheek, leaving red teeth marks there, and then he wets his fingers. He pushes one finger in and massages his channel. 

Above him, Hanzo arches his back, buries his head into his hands, and presses back against his probing finger. Jesse hears Hanzo release grunt after groan, whimpers, and his name on shuddered breaths. Hanzo rocks back into his touch, desperate for friction. Jesse flicks his tongue around the rim of his hole while his finger moves in and out, slowly stretching him. He repeatedly wets his fingers, making sure they're slick enough. 

Each utterance of praise goes straight to his head, and his chest bursts with pride. He’s wanted to show Hanzo all this for months. Longed for it, fantasized about it… he can hardly believe it’s happening, still. 

Jesse leans forward, pressing his chest into Hanzo’s back, and purrs, “Tell me what you want.” 

He hears Hanzo cuss under his breath in Japanese. They’ve known each other long enough to know the typical Spanish and Japanese curse words they each respectively use. When Hanzo doesn’t explicitly give an order, Jesse presses closer and grinds the length of his cock against Hanzo’s entrance.

“Come on, Hanzo, don’t be shy…” 

“Baka amerikajin.”

Jesse’s expression turns wicked. He knows _that_ phrase, alright. _Stupid American._

He steps away and reaches out for his abandoned trousers haphazardly lying amidst a trail of clothing on the way to the spring. He fishes into the pocket and grabs the tin Genji gave as a gift. Devil’s Skin. What a name. What better time than now to try one of these out. He returns to Hanzo and climbs out of the pool. He nudges Hanzo forward and makes room for himself to kneel behind him. 

“Oh, I’m downright flattered, Hanzo, when you call me that.” 

The tin opens with a pop. He grabs one of the rubbers, chuckling again, and slips it over his cock. The rubber hugs him tight, and he figures it’ll stay on just fine, even if they get a little rough. 

Jesse clears his throat. “I’m still waitin’ to hear it, dear. Mmm,” he guides the head of his cock into the tight ring of muscles and moves it in and out, “you’re just askin’ for it, look at you. You want it so bad, don’t you?”

Hanzo clenches around him, trembling, legs buckling together. 

Jesse reaches out and grabs Hanzo’s tied back hair. He fists it and draws Hanzo upright, onto his knees. He pulls his hair loose and runs his fingers through it. His other free hand snakes around to Hanzo’s front and takes hold of his hard cock. He tugs on it, precum leaking over his fingers, and Hanzo’s head slumps back onto his shoulder. 

“No need to be shy, Hanzo,” Jesse whispers, “it’s just you, me, and the great outdoors…” 

“Fucking cowboy.” Hanzo hisses. “Just do it already!” 

“Oh, I’m not sure if I like that tone, sweetheart.” Jesse tugs on Hanzo’s ear with his teeth. He smacks his ass again, and Hanzo grunts. “Come on sweetheart, say it a little nicer.” 

Hanzo reaches around and scrapes his nails against Jesse’s thighs. Jesse rocks his hips forward, the touch teasing, faint, leaving much to be desired. If Hanzo wants to play, oh, he can play. Perhaps Hanzo has underestimated him and taken him for an impatient man. He can wait. He’s in no rush. Can Hanzo wait? Jesse pinches Hanzo’s nipple, sucks on his neck, strokes his cock without remorse, all the while rutting against him. If the loud, lewd noises Hanzo makes are anything to go by, he suspects his archer won’t be able to hold out for much longer. 

“Damn it, Jesse…” Hanzo says through gritted teeth. “Please.” 

Too quiet. Who does Hanzo take him for? 

“Oh, what was that? You gotta speak up. I couldn’t hear you.” 

“Fucking put it in,” Hanzo growls.  
“Put what in?” 

It’s like opening up a clamshell. Over these last two weeks Hanzo’s opened up more to him, just as Jesse has. His companion’s romantic confidence has evolved as they explored this new phase of their relationship together. Jesse wants to see Hanzo lose it. He wants to hear Hanzo beg, over and over. Damn if it doesn’t do mighty wicked things to him. Hanzo digs his nails into Jesse’s thigh, and Jesse has no doubt that’ll leave a mark. 

“Put your cock inside of me, please!” 

“Thought you’d never ask,” Jesse purrs, smooth and silk, into Hanzo’s ear. 

Jesse carefully pushes into Hanzo, the slickened rubber feeling different than previous times. One hand holds onto Hanzo’s hips while the other splays against his abdomen. He guides him up and down, impaling his whimpering lover onto his cock over and over. 

They swap back and forth between Hanzo controlling the depth and speed to Jesse thrusting hard up into him. They build up a quick sweat, their bodies hot underneath the warm winter sun. The air fills with the sound of their bodies smacking together, sloppy, rough, with Hanzo more vocal than he’s ever been before in their love-making sessions. Jesse can’t get enough of it. He showers praise onto Hanzo, knowing how much it pleases Hanzo to hear it. 

“You’re driving me crazy, Hanzo,” Jesse looks down between him, his jaw completely slack at the sight of his cock disappearing completely into Hanzo’s ass. “Jesus Fucking Christ, you take cock so well.”

Hanzo doesn’t speak. His moans grow louder, his sputtered cries grow more desperate, and Jesse makes sure to hold him up. When they’re both rapidly approaching their climax, Jesse takes over and pounds up into Hanzo until they come. First Hanzo, then Jesse, moments later.

Jesse leans back on his haunches and takes a deep breath to help calm his racing heartbeat. He slowly pulls out of Hanzo’s ass and sees the rubber has not only stayed intact, but has collected what otherwise would have been a mess. 

“Mmm. Well that’s convenient.” He pulls it off and ties the top into a knot. He glances back to his exhausted lover and grins. “Come on, let’s wash up.” 

Jesse collects Hanzo, who’s as limp as a ragdoll, and he helps him back into the spring. The warm water immediately provides relief for their tired muscles. They each sit in the spring, making idle conversation. 

“Now I can see why Jack and Gabe came here often. This is great.” 

“Uh huh.” 

Jesse crosses his arms behind his head, stretches a leg, and wiggles his toes. He flashes a winning smile over to Hanzo, who has sunken deep enough into the water that the surface comes just beneath his nose. His black hair pools around him like spilled ink, swaying gently with every ripple of movement. 

Jesse sighs and closes his eyes. Out here without a care in the world, it’s almost too good to be true. He doesn’t move when he hears the rustle of water, and he doesn’t draw away when two palms spread across his chest. 

Hanzo settles into his lap and kisses him, lazy, slow. Jesse only opens his eyes when he hears his name murmured between gentle kisses. Hanzo rests before him, smiling, with the sun at his back. It almost creates a halo of light around him, like he’s an angel. Hanzo was sent by heaven, he must’ve been, because Jesse feels downright blessed. He must’ve done something good along the way, he must’ve earned someone’s favor along the way. 

Water slides down Hanzo’s cheek, and Jesse can’t help himself. “Thanks for comin’ out here with me, sweetheart.” 

Hanzo nods, but says no words. None need to be said. Jesse sees all he needs to know and more in the amber eyes that stare back at him. 

They kiss again, and this time Jesse wraps his arms around Hanzo, embracing him tight. Mid-kiss, Hanzo leans away, turns his head, and presses his palm into Jesse’s collarbone. 

“Alright. Keep it up and you two are going to start pruning.” 

Jesse damn near has a heart attack. He looks over his shoulder and groans. 

“Jesus Gabriel, how about a warning?” 

Gabriel Reyes stands at the edge of the small clearing, holding the reigns of their two horses while sitting atop his own black stallion. 

“If I waited any longer to interrupt I would have been waiting for hours. It’s hot and I’ve been riding for an entire day. Went to your safehouse first, and when I didn’t find you there, I came out here.” Gabriel snickers and scratches his beard. “You’re lucky I know where this spot is.” 

Jesse blinks and feels his cheeks prickle with sensation. “Didn’t know we were gonna have company.” 

“Well, I come bearing good news. The marshals are long gone. It’s time to come home. Get dressed.” 

Gabriel clicks his tongue and turns his horse to give him and Hanzo privacy. They climb out of the hot spring, collect their clothes, and get dressed. 

Once clothed, Jesse glances back to Hanzo, and though he’s trying his best to swallow down his anxieties, he can’t help the frown from splitting his face and soiling his mood.

“Jesse, this is good news. We can go home now.” 

Somehow it doesn’t feel like good news. Jesse’s mind races with worry. What if the marshals come back? What if they sneak up on them, and they catch him in the act? That’ll implicate everyone, they’ll all be judged as complicit, and he cannot, will not--

A firm hand on his shoulder pulls him out of his own spiral. Jesse looks up and sees Gabriel above him, his austere expression leaving no room for doubt.

“Believe it or not, kid, we all missed you. Home hasn’t been much the same without you. Everyone pulled together to make sure it would be safe for your return. We waited two days for them to be long gone. If they try to come back, we’ll know.” 

Jesse draws in a deep breath. Beside him, Hanzo takes his hand and squeezes it. The gesture helps remind him that he isn’t alone. 

“Saddle up. Let’s get going. I hear Ana’s going to prepare a welcome home party--Fareeha and Hana’s idea. So pretend to be surprised, alright?”

Jesse laughs sheepishly. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve the family he found after staggering alone in this very desert years ago, but he thanks his lucky stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! We hope you enjoyed this installment of our story!
> 
> A big thank you to JamieKinosian for their [artwork](http://jamiekinosian.tumblr.com/post/156649895037/third-aclu-sketch-commission-of-genji-and-mercy) of Genji and Mercy from a scene in Chapter 13.


	21. Too Faintly Sweet, the First May Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter fades into spring. Five months pass in the Mojave Desert.

**PART TWO**

After the marshals from the valley left, Jesse McCree and Hanzo Shimada return home to Twenty Nine Palms, where loved ones greet them with open arms. With the return of the charismatic cowboy and the cool-headed archer comes the return of laughter, light-heartedness, and merriment. The people in town can sigh in relief, shed the burden and pain of silence. No longer do they have to pretend that their friend Jesse McCree is a villain.

With flowing beer, song, and lively dancing, the owner of the High Noon Saloon reclaims his place at the center of town. To the citizens of Twenty Nine Palms, Jesse McCree made this dustbowl feel like home. All of the people in Twenty Nine Palms matter, but the town could not be what it is without the charming cowboy. Jesse McCree is the heart. Without him, Twenty Nine Palms wouldn’t be the same. They had been so close to losing a member of their family. 

The age old cliche rings true for the citizens of this small town. Home is where the heart is, and there’s no place like home. 

Five months pass. The daily routine falls back into place. High melodies and playful lyrics carry on the wind. Up and down the main road of town, business commences as usual. 

Twenty Nine Palms returns to normal, or as close to normal as it can out in the wilds of the Mojave Desert. 

Love blossoms with the coming of spring. Families grow with the birth of the Lindholm’s newest son. Children once so small grow older. New chapters are penned in the narratives of the young: Maria Reyes, Gabriel’s younger sister, leaves town to begin her studies at university up north. The future is bright; fortune favors the bold. 

Doctor Angela Ziegler takes care of her patients with newly found strength and clarity of mind. Torbjorn Lindholm and Reinhardt Wilhelm take young Fareeha under their wing to begin teaching her their craft. Sheriff Morrison keeps the town safe, thwarting petty crimes and exacting justice for all. He stays sharp, listening for rumors indicating that the marshals may return. His husband, Gabriel Reyes, tends their farm with their daughter Hana as spring vegetables and desert flowers bloom. Ana Amari receives a shipment of fabric to her store and begins sewing new spring clothes to replace the old. Passing travelers and visitors keep Lena Oxton busy at her inn, in addition to looking after her father, who fares better with spring as a new beginning. At the schoolhouse, the school year approaches its end, with the children of Twenty Nine Palms eagerly awaiting their summer break. Amelie’s health begins to fare better, too; the anniversary of her husband’s death passed with the winter months. 

They weathered the storm, together, and came out stronger.

**x X x X x**

“Man, Hanzo, you sure look pretty in the sunset’s light.”

Hanzo Shimada tilts his head, stirred from his thoughts, and rolls his eyes playfully. To think, the cowboy’s silly sweet-nothing’s used to make him feel so embarrassed. Now, months later, he welcomes them with a smile.

A pleasant breezes runs through his loose hair. Atop the hillside where they stopped to rest during their afternoon hike, Jesse lays beside him, sprawled out on a blanket with his hands folded underneath his head, and grinning like a madman. 

“Flatterer,” he says playfully. 

“I only speak the truth, darlin’. Love wakin’ up in the morning and seein’ your face. Like fallin’ asleep and knowin’ you’re there, too.” Jesse’s grin softens into a bashful smile. His bronzed skin darkens with a blush. He sits up, leans over Hanzo’s chest, and splays his fingers against the cloth of his white shirt. “God it makes me feel like the luckiest man alive,” he murmurs against Hanzo’s lips. 

They share a kiss. To Hanzo, Jesse’s sentiments are mutual. Living in Twenty Nine Palms has brought him and his brother peace and happiness they have not known in years. After the marshals left town, Hanzo and Genji both moved out of the inn after offering Lena their deepest gratitude. Genji settled down with Angela in her home, and Hanzo joined Jesse at his room above the saloon. Hanzo has found joy in the simple pleasure of feeling a solid mass beside him at night after working during the day alongside Jesse. He has never felt closer with anyone ever before. Jesse knows him in ways he never thought anyone ever could, or would, for that matter. 

Not only has Hanzo tended to a relationship with Jesse McCree, him and his brother Genji have seen theirs blossom once more. They’re brothers, again, no longer at odds. Perhaps their father would forgive leaving home if he could see them now--the Shimada legacy continues on, anew, through them. Like a forest after a wildfire that scorched the earth to ash, new, sturdier roots have grown in place of what they had before. The one year anniversary of his and Genji’s escape from Japan approaches, but Hanzo feels little regret over his decision to leave. He knows deep in his heart it was the right choice. 

Soon, they will have to make the short trek back home, even if it’ll be hard to walk away from the pleasant view. The night is young, and Hanzo has plans for his cowboy once they return to the saloon. 

Hanzo drapes his arm around Jesse’s shoulder, smiling softly. “Play me a song,” he murmurs, “just one more, please, before we head back.”

Jesse kisses his cheek and sighs. “Anything for you, Hanzo.” 

Then, he grabs his brother’s old guitar from where it lies amongst their belongings. He holds it against his chest and begins to strum. Hanzo closes his eyes and curls up against Jesse. 

“ _Hard times, hard times, come again no more_  
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door  
Oh, hard times come again no more…”

**x X x X x**

A chill falls over the valley as the sun disappears beyond the horizon. The darkness of night descends over the Mojave Desert. A welcome stillness settles, and the blanket of stars begin to twinkle in the sky. As the crescent moon rises in the sky, a pack of coyotes howl in unison, rejoicing in their first kill of the evening. First blood belongs to them and their fangs.

Atop a rocky hillside, a match ignites and illuminates the features of a man dressed in black and gray. A cigar rests between his teeth, and he brings the wispy flame to the end to light it. After rubbing the match out beneath the heel of his boot, the man looks down into the desert valley below and takes a drag. 

In the distance he sees a small town lit by lamps and lanterns, archaic for the day and age of electricity. Simple folk live there, he imagines. He hopes they aren’t all so simple. 

A locomotive’s whistle blows, singling the late arrival of the train to the otherwise quiet, sleepy town. Then, behind him, he hears the tell-tale sound of boots crunching in the dirt. 

“Looks like Sodom before its destruction, if you ask me,” the approaching man tells him. “That traitor better be here.” 

The cigar-smoking man doesn’t turn his head. The gentle evening breeze pulls at his long coat.

“That marshal better have told us right,” his associate carries on, “or he’s gonna see himself on the other end of my pistol…” 

“Jesus Christ,” another approaching voice says, a woman with heavier footfalls, “get over yourself. You’re too much of a fucking coward to pull the trigger.” 

“You’re right, I much prefer a knife to the throat. More _personal_ that way. Intimate.” He snorts. “After all, I’d hate to be disappointed. I’m looking forward to seeing our dear old friend again. I want him to know it’s me, I want him to look into my eyes and know that he should have had the guts to finish the job. And you know what they say, a little death won’t hurt...” 

“That fucker has it coming.”

The conversation continues, but the cigar-smoking man tunes it out. He stares down at the lights of the town, silent except for the soft sizzle of his cigar, a trail of smoke billowing from its end. It’s almost as if he can feel tremors in the earth, the quake of divine right beneath his feet. After searching for so long, he knows this is the place. He hopes his old friend hasn’t forgotten him. 

“How’s it feel, boss?”

“‘There is nothing that keeps wicked men at any one moment out of hell, but the mere pleasure of God.’” 

The cigar drops to the earth, the fading embers snuffed by the heel of a boot, and the man falls once more into darkness. 

“Pack up. We have work to do.”


	22. Dreams are Fragile Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While enjoying a cup of tea with her friends, Amelie recalls her journey to Twenty Nine Palms with Lena and Charles Oxton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the following themes: suicidal ideations, eating disorders, depression, PTSD, and references to past familial verbal abuse. Please read with care if these sorts of topics are upsetting to you.

_June, 1924_

Years ago, when Amelie arrived with Lena and Charles Oxton and new friends (the Amari-Wilhelms, the Lindholms, and Angela Ziegler), living in the high desert required adjustment. The United States was nothing like Europe. The major cities of New York and St. Louis seemed so familiar, and yet so different. Louder, busier. As for the country itself, everything appeared to be so spread out. Wide, open spaces, the travel brochures read. To Amelie, America was nothing like what her late husband Gerard used to describe. One day, they were going to travel across the Atlantic. Gerard would give lectures at the finest American schools--Princeton, Harvard--and Amelie would dance on Broadway. The Great War took away any chance they had at fulfilling those dreams. 

When they arrived in Twenty Nine Palms, in what she considered to be the middle of nowhere compared to Paris or London, Amelie found herself disliking not only the climate but the dust and dirt as well. Still, she was done with big cities, ultimately. Done with the politics, the scandals, the latest drama in the papers. Twenty Nine Palms only had one quality at first--at the very least, Amelie found the citizens welcoming and kind. Lena loved making new friends, and Charles prefered the quiet. In time, Amelie began to embrace the desert wasteland in its beauty and called it home. 

Lena found work under the guidance of the inn’s previous owner, and Sheriff Morrison helped Charles find new purpose handling the town’s mail, a position Jack had needed to handle for several months in addition to his duties. For Amelie, she offered to help the town’s only school teacher, who felt overwhelmed with so many students. Long before the beginning of their journey to the United States, Amelie knew she wanted to become a teacher to honor her husband’s memory. Even if the desert _had_ a use for dancers, Amelie had vowed in the weeks following her husband’s death that she would never professionally dance again. At the time, it was a choice. Years later, the retirement is a necessity to maintain her own health. 

Amelie could do without the fickle weather, though. The heat during the day, the chill at night. Severe heat and wild thunderstorms during the summer, the possibility of rain and snow in the winter. She enjoys spring most, when late winter rain storms pass over the mountains and help bring the desert flora into bloom. Vibrant flowers on tall green cacti, wildflowers, and even new tufts of low lying grass. Amelie isn’t sure if even the best Parisian artists could capture the landscape appropriately. One simply needed to experience the land viscerally; a picture alone would never do. 

Today, in the middle of June, Amelie sits on the porch of Betsy and Torbjörn Lindholm among friends. Every month, her and Ana coordinate an afternoon tea for all who wish to join. Ana, Angela, and Charles sit at the table with her. Betsy normally attends, but today she has been drawn back inside of her home to help Torbjörn and Reinhardt fix a broken shelf. Beyond the porch, the many Lindholm children play with Hana, Fareeha, and Lena. Brigette Lindholm’s the oldest of her siblings at fifteen, then Beatrice and Bernard the twins at nine, Torsten the middle son at six, Tora the youngest daughter at five, and Torvald, the youngest son and newest edition to the family, rests inside the house in his crib peacefully. From what Amelie can gather, they’re all pretending to be outlaws, with Hana as sheriff despite having fallen asleep in the shade of a tall palm tree. Lena volunteered to be the damsel in distress. Fareeha and Brigette sit beside Hana, pretending to do their homework but instead watching on as the children play.

“I’m Sam Bass!” Bernard shouts while puffing out his chest. 

“No!” Beatrice argues. “I’m Sam Bass!” 

“No, you’re Pinhead Larry, silly.” 

“Who’re you callin’ a pinhead!” 

“But I want to be Sam Bass!” Torsten cries, stomping his little feet. 

“Well I’m tallest, so I get to be Sam Bass!” Beatrice says, proudly.

“That doesn’t even make sense!” Bernard retorts, “We’re the same height!” 

“Shh!” Torsten says. “You’re going to wake Sheriff Song!” 

It’s as if the twins didn’t even hear her. Amelie has long lost track of the conversation between Angela, Charles, and Ana. Something about gardening, maybe, but it doesn’t interest her. She stirs her tea and watches as Lena sits on the ground nearby, tied to a tree stump. The children have forgotten about her in their dispute. Amelie smiles to herself, she has always admired Lena’s affection for children and how good she is with them. They’re drawn to Lena’s playful and carefree nature.

Then, as if sensing eyes upon her, Lena turns and looks across the yard to meet her gaze. She laughs. 

_Looks like the cavalry fell asleep on me,_ Lena mouths. 

A mischievous grin spreads across Amelie’s face. She has to admit, there’s something about seeing her extroverted better-half tied up that sets her off in all the right ways. She swallows thickly and covers up her blush by taking a long sip of tea. It’s too late, though. When she looks back to Lena, she sees her smirking proudly. 

“You can’t be Sam Bass because I called it!” 

“You can’t call something before we even decide what we’re playing!” 

“I can call whatever I want, I’m smarter, so that means I’m the better bad guy--” 

“Now, which one of you fellas is Sam Bass?”

Amelie’s attention returns to the children. Hana woke up from her slumber, and it seems that the sheriff has returned to town, with a vengeance. The Lindholm children run off, squealing and somehow still arguing about who Sam Bass really is. She looks to Lena, who bursts into laughter despite her predicament. Amelie chuckles softly. 

_Well, it looks like you’ll be sitting there for awhile longer, chérie._

**x X x**

_December, 1917_

“Amelie, your performance was otherworldly, beautiful, absolutely magnificent. Stay in London for another season, with us. You must reconsider returning to Paris! Please! We would be so honored to have you...” 

The spoken words begin to blur as Amelie Lacroix sits in front of the mirror wiping away makeup with a damp rag. Layers of white powder, lipstick, and face paint come off of her face, revealing smooth, flawless rosy skin beneath. She smiles proudly at her reflection. Yes, tonight her performance was one of a kind. If only her old mentor could have seen her, if only her dear Gerard could have been here (front row, center stage, always). She put everything into her performance of Tchaikovsky's _Sleeping Beauty_ , a classic. After Amelie took her final bow, the stage quickly became flooded with bouquets of red roses. Admirers sang praise, showered her with lavished calls for an encore, for one of her brilliantly breathless smiles, and she gave everything to the crowd and more. 

“As much as I love London,” Amelie purrs, “I have anticipated returning to Paris. Gerard will be coming home on leave for the holidays--if not sooner. I read in the papers that Clemenceau believes the war will surely reach a conclusion by month’s end. I received his letter last month saying he will be home this year. So, I made arrangements, such darling plans for Christmas and for our anniversary. I decided that we simply _must_ see our dear friends this winter. They live in Marseilles and I have heard that the fields of flowers there are exquisite during this time of year.” She finishes applying a fresh coat of pale pink lipstick. A knowing smile spreads across her face. Yes, she knows they will have a wonderful time celebrating--she bought a wonderful black lace lingerie that’s waiting for him when he comes home. “Gerard and I do hope you will come and see us in Paris when we return; I believe I will be practicing for _Swan Lake_ for next year’s opening season of ballet.”

Behind her, Victoria Elliott, a fellow ballerina from this season’s performances, grins and wraps her arms around her friend’s shoulders. 

“I think Phillip will be receiving leave as well. Perhaps we will be able to take you up on that offer--you know we’re getting married soon. I can’t wait to be Mrs. Phillip Rogers!”

Amelie beams. After twelve long weeks in London, tomorrow she will board a ship that will take her back to the continent. Then, a train, and in only a few days time, she will be home again, with Gerard.

“So, what did you get him for your anniversary?” 

“Oh he is simply the easiest man to purchase gifts for. My husband loves books--you remember, he teaches Medieval history. I saw this antique collection of original volumes on Charlemagne written by one of his idols, and I simply could not resist. You should see how much room they take up in my suitcase, mon dieu. I pity the poor boy who will have to carry my luggage.” 

Victoria giggles. “Are you trying to say you have no room in your luggage to smuggle me to Paris?” 

Amelie laughs and shakes her head. “Don’t make me choose between the dresses I purchased and you, dear.” 

“Pick the dresses, of course! You have a soldier waiting for you, you must look your best.” 

“I know Gerard will love the books. They will look wonderful in his office at the university, and perhaps he will find use for them in his lectures.” 

“That’s awfully thoughtful of you, Amelie.” 

“This is going to be our fourth anniversary. I can hardly believe it.”

Amelie stands from the velvet bench and changes out of her blue tutu while sharing stories with her close friend. She’s just about to pull on her coat when someone knocks at the door. Victoria answers for her. 

“Miss Elliott.” 

Amelie doesn’t turn away from the mirror while she fixes herself up. She looks past her shoulder in her reflection to see the theater’s manager standing in the doorframe with a serious expression. 

“I apologize to interrupt and intrude, but I have an urgent matter to attend with Madame Lacroix. If you wouldn’t mind.” 

“Of course.” Victoria collects herself and kisses Amelie’s cheek. Before she leaves, she murmurs, “Do think about what I said, though. London will miss it’s most darling ballerina. I’ll keep in touch over the holidays. Bon voyage!”

She excuses herself and departs the dressing room, leaving only Amelie and the manager. 

“What’s this all about, Francis, I was just about to return to my hotel--” 

“There’s… something you need to see. I have a friend who works for _Le Temps_ , and during the show a delivery boy… my Parisian friend wanted this to be delivered to you.” The older man frowns and appears torn, as if he’s uncertain about his next statement. His grip on the flimsy, folded newspaper tightens.

Amelie rolls her eyes. “Oh Francis, don’t be so dramatic. Don’t tell me I received a bad review in some silly paper...”

Francis pales. “Amelie, this is... I had no idea. I am so sorry. If I had known, I would have never asked you to perform these past few weeks. Why didn’t you say something?” 

Something about his tone unsettles Amelie. She searches his features and finds no clues for understanding his meaning. 

“Francis, don’t tease. Tell me what’s going on.” 

The theater’s manager offers the wrinkled newspaper to Amelie, who takes it from him in confusion. She looks down at the page of _Le Temps_ dated several weeks ago and her heart stops. 

Amongst French text printed in black ink, Amelie sees an old photograph of her husband gazing back at her. 

_Gerard Lacroix, Esteemed Professor of History & Honorable Officer in French Army, to be Remembered by Colleagues and Family at Memorial Service_

This is an announcement of her husband’s death and a memorial service to be held on… the 30th of November. Four days ago. She rereads the text over and over in complete disbelief. Yes, after rereading it once more, then again, her entire world has shattered in mere moments. This is an obituary for her husband, who, according to the article, died weeks ago in northeastern France. 

How could she have ever prepared herself for these words, though few, and their devastating impact? 

A single death can change everything.

“In my friend’s letter, he explained that he attended the service, and he was shocked by your absence… and apparently everyone was except for Gerard’s mother, who spoke rather ill of you.” He places a hand upon her shoulder. “Amelie, I know you. I overheard you speaking with the other girls these past few weeks, how you couldn’t wait to see Gerard again. Did you even know?” 

“N-No, I…” 

She can’t think of what to say. She can hardly breathe. No, she did _not_. Her eyes meet her husband’s in the photograph, and she stands lamely, gripping the newspaper, her knuckles white. She feels like she’s about to faint; the world spins, her heart hammers in her chest, as if it’s daring to break free. 

“Good God, Amelie, I am so sorry.” 

Arms wrap around her, but suddenly Amelie only feels numb. Despite the warm tears sliding down her cheeks, she feels cold, empty, bereft of emotion. 

“How did you not know? How could nobody have told you?”

Amelie doesn’t know what to say--at first, there are no answers to explain this cruelty. 

“I-I don’t know.”

Then, in an epiphany all too painful to ignore, the answers come together. She cannot bear to speak such private, awful truths aloud. She shakes her head and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Suddenly the energy to continue this conversation has evaporated into thin air like the last remaining drops of water in a desert. 

“I must go.” She gathers her few personal belongings, pulls her coat tighter around her, and then folds the newspaper page to shove it into her coat. 

“ _Amelie_ ,” Francis grabs her wrist before she can leave her dressing room. “Wait, please--you shouldn’t go out alone. It’s dark outside, pouring--let me go find Miss Elliott, she can take you to your hotel, or--”

Amelie firmly wrests her wrist from his hand and storms out the door before he can properly stop her. She doesn’t think, she doesn’t care-- _nothing_ matters, even her own well-being. She finds the back exit to the theater and moves out into the alleyway to be greeted by the chilly evening downpour. She continues running until she fades into anonymity with the evening crowd of city dwellers, until she knows no one will try to catch up and stop her.

Despite bringing an umbrella with her to the theater earlier today, Amelie doesn’t use it. Her dark brown hair quickly becomes drenched along with her fur coat but she doesn’t care. She wanders the city streets of downtown London with no direction trapped in her own pain. 

How quickly, how easily she transitioned from seeing her world in joyous color to now only monochrome. In one short article, the light in her life became extinguished, leaving behind a barren, cold hearth. 

Amelie recites the words of the announcement over and over. How could nobody have told her, Francis asked. Bitterly, her broken heart knows the answer. 

Gerard Lacroix came from wealth, his mother the sole heiress to an old title that no longer mattered aside from its assurance of luxury and splendor. Amelie, in turn, came from significantly more humble beginnings, but her family had been financially secure enough to offer their daughter the chance for an education in ballet at one of the finest schools in Paris. Her mentors always professed her talent matched no other, and indeed, they were right to believe she would one day become famous, but this had never been enough for Isabelle Lacroix. 

Amelie met Gerard shortly before he was hired on to work for the University of Paris, and despite how easily they fell in love with one another, Isabelle did not approve of her. Her mother-in-law did everything she could to discourage her son from marrying Amelie, but Gerard’s heart was set on her. Once married, Isabella tried to separate them. Amelie endured terrible verbal abuse. Isabelle often called her horrid names and insisted she was too plump to be a proper ballerina, too clumsy, and too plain. 

_Truly, Mademoiselle Dantes, if you gain any more pounds, you will never be able to fit into a wedding dress let alone your gaudy tutu._

_Pah, how dirty your complexion is._

_Must you wear such makeup, girl? You look like an awfully macabre clown._

_Oh how dull you are, Amelie. My son could do better, so much better. Do you even know how to read and write?_

She took every opportunity to warn her son to be mindful of how much he spent on her, and she often proclaimed that Amelie only loved him for his wealth.

_One day you will find she’s left you, Gerard, and she will have taken everything. Then you will understand all of my warnings._

_I imagine you cannot wait for me to fall over and die, girl. You will not be in my will, Amelie. You will get not even one Franc extra from me and my husband._

Wealth meant nothing to Amelie. Yes, her and her husband did live a glamorous life, and they had traveled briefly before the outbreak of the war to London, Berlin, and Amsterdam on holidays. Amelie loved him for his brilliant enthusiasm for history and for teaching. He had been the first man to see her for her intelligence before her beauty. Before the war, they had spent every evening together one way or another. He read to her, debated history with her, and often he would kiss away the doubts and fears she carried about her place at his side. He made love to her as if she were the only star in his sky, showering her with whispered praise, using his velvet tongue and soft fingers to worship her. Gerard worked hard to remind her of her own inner beauty, her grace, and her charm. He truly loved her, all of her, and Amelie confided her secrets in him. He and he alone knew she struggled with her self-esteem and self-image that so often was slandered by his cruel mother or harsh critics.

Gerard tried to control his mother, and he often suffered her abuse as well for his efforts. He was an only son. His father never cared to bother speaking up for his son and his wife either, instead too concerned in his own business working as a Parisian politician to notice. Gerard tried, fruitlessly, to see the good in his family and was repeatedly disappointed by them.

Of course Isabelle would do all she could to keep the truth from Amelie. Of course she would do all she could to destroy her reputation as his widow by making it seem as if Amelie was too busy, too vain to come to her own husband’s memorial service. She doesn’t care what gossip tabloids will say in the papers. They can eviscerate her reputation, they can ruin her--there is nothing left to have. Her own mother-in-law kept the death of her husband from her for over three weeks. She should have been there for his memorial service. She didn’t even get to say goodbye to the man she loved. He’s gone and left her alone. 

Amelie grows still with that thought. She finds herself standing alone in another alley, heartbroken, tired, and… lost. She tilts her head to the dark, cloudy night sky. Her tears of despair and hopelessness mingle with the rain. 

Then, from the ashes of her despair, comes anger, disappointment, and shame. How could she be so careless, so foolish, so utterly stupid? Amelie doesn’t know this city. She’s soaked to the bone, shivering, and completely lost. What would Gerard think of her? She certainly knows without a doubt Isabelle is laughing at her carelessness, perhaps even wishing for her misfortune. 

“Idiote,” she curses herself. Amelie fishes into her pocket for her container of cigarettes, takes one out, and puts it between her teeth with a trembling hand. She tries to light a flame in the midst of the rain while muttering to herself. “Stupid. Stupid fucking girl.”

“Uhm… Miss? Afraid you might not get a light in this mess.” 

Amelie turns suddenly and sees a younger woman standing behind her carrying a cloth bag of groceries and holding an umbrella. In the dimmed light of the streetlamp, Amelie sees this short girl has brown hair styled into a bob and a pale, freckled complexion. She wears dark slacks and an indigo peacoat. 

“Yes, of course. How… how silly of me.” Amelie pockets the cigarette and her lighter. She looks away and curls a wet strand of hair behind her ear. She hears a loud gasp from the other woman. 

“Oh my God, are you… you’re Amelie Lacroix, aren’t you?” 

Amelie glances back and nods solemnly. 

_Perhaps I am only just Amelie, now._

“I _cannot_ believe this! I just saw you earlier tonight, at the… at the theater. Gosh, you were absolutely wonderful.” The young girl has stars in her eyes. “ _Sleeping Beauty_ is one of my favorite fairy tales, and when I saw that it was performing, I immediately spent all of my money to get a ticket, and then I went, and it was wonderfully worth it. You were so graceful and I...” The woman trails off and her enthusiastic smile fades. Her brows purse and her lips furrow into a frown. “Oh gosh, I am completely daft.” She steps forward and holds the umbrella over Amelie. “Are you alright? You… you look rather heartbroken.” 

Before tonight, Amelie used to have no trouble speaking, except when she needed to hold her tongue with her mother-in-law for Gerard’s sake. Now, she doesn’t know what to say. Nothing is alright, nothing ever will be right again, and yes, she is heartbroken. Her heart died in the awful trenches her husband described in his written letters to her. 

“Are you lost?” 

Amelie opens her mouth to speak, but no words form. She stands there, wide eyed, shivering, trembling, on the utter brink of collapsing to her knees in her grief. 

“Hey now, don’t cry, luv, please.” The woman drops her umbrella and her groceries, pulls off her coat, and wraps it around Amelie’s shoulders. “Please, you’re going to catch cold out here.” She secures the coat and then picks up the umbrella again. “My name is Lena, Lena Oxton. I live here in this building in a little flat. I know you’re not from London, so it’s more than okay to be a little lost--I certainly lose my way in some of these streets too.” Lena tilts her head and tries to meet Amelie’s gaze. “If it’s okay with you, you can come inside and stay here. Warm up, rest. I’ll make a cuppa tea.” 

Amelie meets the younger woman’s gaze. She vaguely remembers seeing her in the audience. Tonight’s performance seems like a dream, so faded now, so blurred by reality that she can hardly believe it really happened. She doesn’t know this girl, this woman, but something in her pleading words and hopeful smile helps pierce the fog in her thoughts. 

“Alright,” she agrees. 

They head inside the building and climb three flights of stairs. The state of the interior reminds Amelie of her childhood flat where her parents raised her on the income of two retail workers. She can’t complain, it’s a roof over her head. 

Once inside the young girl’s apartment, Amelie utters an apology, “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m ruining your lovely coat. I simply am a mess, aren’t I?” 

Lena closes up her umbrella and helps take off the two coats Amelie wears. “No. Not at all. Believe me, that coat has been through Hell and back, and it’s kept me just fine and warm. I’m not sure about your uhm…” 

“It’s fine.” 

“I’m sorry if the ole flat looks bleak; I’ve been so busy with everything that I haven’t had much time to clean up.” 

Amelie blinks and glances around the room. The apartment is well-lived in, but warm--warmer than the emptiness of the alley. Books and papers lay scattered near a small couch. She guesses this Lena girl must be a student at university. 

She shrugs. “No need to apologize. You must be a busy student.” 

“Uhm, oh, well…” Lena swallows thickly and laughs awkwardly. “I mean, yeah, of course. Right. I’m a student! Just taking a few classes, nothing difficult really. Literature, right. Studying literature and I... I work at the hotel just down the street--the Alderworth.” 

The Alderworth. Her hotel. To Amelie, the thought of returning to her room after what happens seems like a paradoxically terrible and good idea. She would go to her bath, fill the basin with hot, boiling water, and she would slip into the basin, clothed, and slit her wrists. She would bleed out, alone. She’s afraid of oblivion and simultaneously seeking her own demise. 

“...and I work at my father’s bakery too, just downstairs, so yeah, I…uh Mrs. Lacroix? Hello?” 

Amelie stirs and turns her head. She sees the girl standing and holding a tray of tea. How long had she been standing there, so out of touch with reality? 

“I made some tea and picked out some biscuits. I hope you don’t mind Earl Grey.”

They sit down on the couch together, with the tray on the small, wobbly table before them. Amelie sits in silence, staring down at her warm, steaming cup. She sees her murky reflection, and she wants to vomit. Her makeup has run down her cheeks, her eyelids are puffy, and her face looks swollen. 

“I should leave,” Amelie utters. “I appreciate your generosity but I should not keep you from your studies.” 

“What? No! You can’t truly think I’d toss you out onto the street into the cold, do you? You are clearly disoriented, and…you should have some of this tea. I promise it will make you feel right as rain--err, right as… rays of sunshine! Yeah!” 

Amelie sighs. Lena looks at her with a hopeful smile. To appease the young girl, she takes a hesitant sip. 

“There you go. Just keep doing that. Warm up. I’d hate for you to catch cold.” Lena leans back against the couch, her body half-facing Amelie. “So… I wasn’t going to pry, I really shouldn’t… but I have to ask. Is this because of your husband?” 

Amelie drops her teacup mid-sip, shattering the ceramic on the wooden floor. 

“Damn it!” She sits upright and scrambles to kneel down. She begins to pick up pieces of broken ceramic. “I’m sorry. Please, please let me--ah!” 

One of the sharper pieces cuts her finger. Amelie looks down at the blossoming plume of red blood that spills from the small wound, and with it, a rush of pain. Her heart starts to race rapidly. Suddenly she feels faint. Her eyes widen. Terrifying images of herself in her bath flood her mind. 

Lena grabs her by the wrist and pulls her up onto her legs. She pushes her gently back down onto the couch with a worried crease in her brow. 

“No, no, Mrs. Lacroix I can do it. Please, sit, rest.” 

Lena leaves to fetch a broom, a metal scoop to collect the shards, and a washcloth to clean up the spilled liquid. She kneels down before Amelie and begins to clean up. 

“It’s my fault, gosh. I-I was so terribly rude. God, I-I can’t believe I just asked that. I am so, so sorry.”

Amelie runs a hand through her damp, drying hair and bites her lip. She closes her eyes and sees a frightening scene play before her: Gerard alone, dying in a pool of his own blood, in some rotten trench. Immediately she opens them again, hoping to chase away the image. 

“Please know you have my deepest sympathies. I’m really sorry. My papa is fighting in the war too. He’s a RAF pilot. I…” Lena shakes her head and picks up the last shard. “Oh God, how daft can I be.” 

“You’re correct. My husband is dead.” Her voice remains flat, lacking emotion. “I found out tonight, after the performance, that it had been announced in Parisian papers weeks ago.” She stares down at the cut finger. “I am a widow, now.” 

“Oh God, you didn’t know? How could nobody have told you? And they let you perform?” 

“The matter is complicated.” 

“Mrs. Lacroix I am so sorry. Please, I…” 

“There is nothing to forgive. You have brought me into your home. You don’t even know me and you have helped me. In turn all I have done is broken your china and stained your floor.” 

“Don’t worry about the cup, I have so many others. God, no wonder you looked so heartbroken. Great job, Lena.” 

Lena stands up with the pan, broom, and washcloth and returns to her kitchen. Then, she returns with a new cup and a first aid kit. She offers the fresh tea to Amelie and then takes her seat again at the couch. 

“Let me see your hand. That cut looked awfully nasty. I’ve nicked myself a few time with the knives at the bakery. Never any fun, those.” 

Amelie hesitates to unclench her bloodied palm. After meeting the young girl’s wide gold eyes, she relaxes her hand. Lena begins to tend to the cut, first by cleaning it, then by wrapping her finger in a fresh bandage. Never before has Amelie felt this vulnerable. Yes, dealing with Madame Lacroix and her sneers always hurt, but this… the pain only seems to grow and grow with every shuddered breath. How can someone feel nothing and yet everything overwhelmingly at once? 

“You are more than welcome to stay the night. It’s much too cold and too wet to go out this late into the night. Besides it ain’t safe.” 

“My hotel is actually down the street. I would hate to trouble you further.” 

“You wouldn’t be, in the slightest.” 

“Why is that?” Amelie holds the cup in her palms and scoffs. “If you would like an autograph, please just ask.” 

The bitter words spill past her dry lips before Amelie has a chance to think. Her eyes widen, and just as she’s about to apologize or perhaps flee from this scene in utmost terror, Lena smiles sadly at her. 

“I’m afraid you aren’t entirely wrong with your accusation.” Lena reaches up to scratch her neck. “I did think about asking you. You know... I-I’ve been to all of your shows this season. I’m sure you’ve heard this so many times, but you really are just a fantastic ballerina. I love ballet, and I love literature. Your performance tonight was absolutely gorgeous, smashing really, and when I saw you in the alleyway, I-I couldn’t believe my eyes. The real Sleeping Beauty, the real Amelie Lacroix standing before _me?_ ” A blush spreads across Lena’s freckled cheeks. “Then I saw how unhappy you looked. How… unconscious you were. As if your body may have been here, but your eyes said different. You looked like you could use a friend instead of a fan. I knew from the papers about your husband’s death. I thought you looked… rather lonely. I even thought earlier this evening of how brave you were to finish the season--as if the show had to go on despite your loss. It was wrong of me to ask my question and pry into your private life.” 

“I… I apologize, my comment was rude and uncalled for. Your honesty, however, is appreciated.” 

“You can stay here. I mean that as a friend. You shouldn’t be out there alone right now. My father wouldn’t forgive me if he knew I wasn’t a cordial hostess.” 

The words touch Amelie, even if her face remains affectless. She nods, slowly. 

“Very well. I will stay. Thank you.” 

Amelie drinks her tea in silence beside Lena, who finishes her cup before her. The silence does her no good. She cannot bear it. 

“Tell me about your studies,” she says, trying desperately to not sound like she’s on the verge of shattering. “Your love of literature, you said?” 

“Oh! Well, yes. I do love books. Science Fiction and fantasy especially. Have you read the works of H. G. Wells? Her work is astounding. _The Time Machine_ is my favorite work. I…” She trails off. “Oh, I doubt you’d want to hear it.” 

“No. Please, if you do not mind sharing, I would love to hear it. Please. Just talk. Share whatever you’d like. About your hobbies. About that book, _The Time Machine_. Your schoolwork. Anything.” 

Lena seems to understand the unspoken plea between the lines. She perks up, her smile shy but cheerful. 

“Okay, but please, tell me when to stop. People say I have a tendency to talk too much.” Lena curls a strand of her short brown hair behind her ear. “So, my father instilled a love of books into me. He always used to read to me before bed so I could fall asleep. I’ve always known I wanted to study literature, but more importantly, I want to become a writer…”

**x X x**

Amelie intended to stay for only the evening, but after talking with Lena Oxton for hours, late into the early morning, she finds she can’t leave. She does enjoy the young girl’s company, but she also can barely muster the energy to stand from the couch the next day. She feels lethargic and not just from her lack of sleep. Her body feels heavy, like it has sunken into the worn cushions of Lena’s furniture, swallowing her whole. Lena doesn’t seem to mind doting on her--in fact, she fusses so much over Amelie it feels like she is back home with her own mother again.

As the day passes, Amelie knows she will have to leave soon, and the thought terrifies her. On the other side of that apartment door lays cold, hard, unbearable reality. Gerard is dead, his imp for a mother had kept this truth from her, and the only future she can conceive for herself involves oblivion. Inside of the apartment isn’t much better, but at least Lena’s constant chatter drowns out the sound of Amelie’s panicked inner voice. And then there’s the girl’s broad, effortless smile that somehow seems to light up the otherwise bleak room. Something about it keeps Amelie’s heart beating. 

When evening comes, Lena prepares supper and Amelie declines eating anything. On that first day, Lena says nothing, but she leaves a plate of warm bread, cheese, and carrots on the wooden table by Amelie. It’s nothing special, it pales in comparison to the fine foods her and Gerard used to enjoy when he was home, but Lena took the time to prepare it for her. Amelie leaves the plate untouched, even if she feels guilty for doing so. Trouble comes on the second day, when Lena offers supper once more. Amelie declines again. 

“But you didn’t have anything yesterday, and today you refused to eat breakfast and lunch. You have to eat _something,_ Mrs. Lacroix.”

“No thank you.” Amelie shrugs while laying on the couch and staring up at the ceiling. “I’m not hungry.” 

“That’s ridiculous. You have to eat something to keep up your strength.” 

“Truly, I’m--”

“You can’t just starve yourself. No, I’m sorry, but I won’t let you do that.” 

With a scoff, Amelie raises a brow. “And why is that?” 

Lena grits her teeth and grips the tray of food tighter. “Look, I know we’ve only just met, but I know enough about grief to recognize when someone’s choosing to neglect their own well-being.” 

“Worry about yourself.”

“No!” Lena places the tray down onto the table and crosses her arms. “Don’t be daft. I’m not just going to do that.”

Eventually, Amelie’s too weak to argue. She takes the food off of the table and begins to eat, slowly, despite having no appetite. Eating manages to appease Lena, who smiles and sits down at the small table near Amelie. 

Afterward, Amelie braces for the inevitable. Any moment now, she’ll have to gather the strength to rise from this couch and leave. It’s the proper thing to do, after all. She has more than overstayed her welcome. Two days moping around like an invalid. Lena has all the right to ask her to leave. 

“I just want you to know, Mrs. Lacroix, that you can stay as long as you’d like, if you need.”

Relief washes over Amelie, but it’s almost too good to be true. Surely this young girl can’t be serious. Stay, for as long as she needs? And do what, exactly? Continue on at the theater? No, she can’t. Not anymore. 

“Are you sure?” 

“I don’t mind at all. I know we’ve only just met, but I enjoy having a little company around. I think you need a friend right now.” 

Amelie doesn’t respond, but her chest feels tighter. A friend? She never really had one besides Gerard. Victoria was sweet and kind, but she had placed Amelie on a pedestal. The couple she knew in Marseilles hadn’t even bothered to let her know something had happened to Gerard. 

“I can call for someone to bring your belongings here from the Alderworth, if you’d like.” 

Amelie shrugs. The material things she brought with her from Paris seem so trivial now. Furs, jewelry, gowns. The books that Gerard would never read. That part of her life is over. 

“But first how about I draw up a bath for you. You should clean up and change into something fresh. Clear your head.” 

A bath. Amelie tenses. She closes her eyes and tries in vain to dispel the images that flood her mind. Her head hurts, her heart races, and all she wants to do is run, run, run, but her feet are rooted to the floor. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Y-Yes,” Amelie murmurs, her voice hoarse. Everything inside of her screams otherwise.

Lena helps her onto her feet and pulls her along with a sad smile. She takes her to the small room where a bath basin rests in the middle. 

“I know it’s nothing glamorous, but it’s a place to wash up.” 

As the basin begins to fill with warm water, Amelie’s skin feels like it’s on fire, prickling with overwhelming, unpleasant sensation. It’s just a bath, yet she can barely catch her breath. Her eyes remain fixed on the pool of steaming water, and if she blinks too fast, she can see herself there, eyes lifeless, skin pale as snow, the water red…

Suddenly, she can’t take it anymore. She gags, her stomach violently rejecting her dinner. She catches herself, covering her mouth quickly, as Lena turns to check on her. 

“Mrs. Lacroix! What’s wrong?” 

Amelie swallows down the bitter bile. She coughs and shakes her head. 

“It’s nothing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Amelie.” Lena places a hand upon her shoulder. “You can talk to me.” 

“I...” Amelie trails off and peers down into the water to see her reflection. “I would rather not talk about it.” 

She has never felt this afraid in her life. Of a warm bath, of all things. A pleasure she once used to enjoy. Deep down, she knows the true culprit: if Lena leaves, she doesn’t know what will happen in that silence. She can’t trust herself to be alone. 

“Would you mind staying with me?” 

The confession makes her stomach turn. Admitting this weakness shames her. What would Gerard think if he saw how quickly her life has spiraled out of control? She can easily imagine the sorrow across his features.

Lena’s lips part in shock. “Uhm, pardon?” 

“I’m sorry. I mean in the bath. I feel faint.” 

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Lena blinks. “Well, uh… I mean, I guess so?” She blushes deeply, as if someone powdered her cheeks in rouge. “I mean of course--if you’re worried.”

Without another word, they both undress. Lena’s eyes remain fixed on the floor. Then, she steps into the bath first and starts to wash up. Amelie joins her after hesitating. She sinks down across from Lena, who brings her knees to her chest. It’s a tight fit, but they manage. 

Despite her almost crippling apprehension, Amelie manages to relax. The grim images of her own death do not return. The warm water helps bring color back to her skin and eases muscles she didn’t realize had ached. 

Across from her, Lena finishes washing and then meets her gaze. She offers a small, nervous smile, and Amelie finds herself admiring how effortlessly cheerful Lena seems. The younger woman puts on a good show, one worthy of applause. If she stares deep enough into those gold eyes, Amelie can see the worries hidden just under the surface. After all, she did explain that her father is serving on the continent as well. Lena Oxton has guarded her heart well, for someone who seems to possess endless optimism.

Lena extends the bar of soap and washcloth to Amelie. She leans her head against her knees, closes her eyes, and begins to hum the music from Amelie’s final performance-- _The Sleeping Beauty._ Amelie watches her, closely, and begins to wash away two days of grief. She slips under the water, wets her long hair, and for the first time in two days, she no longer feels as if she’s drowning. 

Afterward, they both leave the bath and dry off. Lena offers Amelie fresh clothes, which she graciously accepts, even if they’re Mr. Oxton’s clothes.

“You can sleep in my room, I don’t mind at all. I can sleep in my father’s room. If you ask me, I don’t think it’s good to keep sleeping on that couch out there--it doesn’t have the best support.” 

Amelie suspects there’s no room for protest on this, so she concedes. “If you insist.” 

Lena’s room looks much the same as the sitting room: like a disorganized mess. The bed isn’t made, there are books and papers stacked on top of each other everywhere she looks. There’s a charming teddy bear stuffed animal tucked under the sheets. Despite the disarray, the atmosphere feels inviting. Lived in. Warm. This is Lena’s space, and she was kind enough to offer it to her. It’s almost too much for Amelie. How will she ever be able to repay this generosity? At the same time, she’s also too tired, too heartbroken to care. 

Lena helps her crawl into the small bed pushed up against a wall. Once Amelie’s head touches the soft pillow, she begins to feel sleep tug on her eyelids. Lena’s too kind, too sweet. The younger woman goes so far as to make sure the comforter is tucked around her. 

“Thank you. For doing all this, taking me into your home,” she whispers, “you didn’t have to, and yet--”

“I meant it when I said you could stay, if you wanted to. I mean, you don’t have to, I just--” 

“Very well. I will stay, Mademoiselle Oxton.” Amelie settles back against the pillow. “But we are cleaning this apartment tomorrow.”

Lena blinks and then bursts into laughter so hard she clutches her stomach. “Okay, okay,” she says in between giggles. “It’s a plan.”

**x X x**

Despite the newfound warmth of Lena Oxton’s apartment, the dark clouds hanging around Amelie Lacroix do not pass, even as days turn to weeks. Yes, there are moments when rays of sunshine manage to pierce through, but nothing lasts. Conflict worthy enough to rival the Great War stirs inside of her. On some days, Amelie feels energetic enough to move around the small apartment, to help do chores or join Lena on errands, to help Lena around her father’s bakery, to do something other than feel like dead weight upon the young woman’s shoulders.

At first, Amelie only has enough focus to worry about herself--her own needs, her own concerns, her own grief. Some days, she has no awareness of the effect her mannerisms and grim outlook has on the other young woman. On these days, Amelie forgets to eat. Sometimes, she’s aware of this forgetting; other times, she purposefully chooses to go without. Often, Lena comes home from her other job or from out shopping and the younger woman asks if she ate already. Amelie lies. Lena believes her. 

On days when Amelie’s all too aware of her own neglect, guilt eats at her like a parasite, but it’s never enough to change her ways. Amelie lied to Gerard and got away with it, surely she can get away with it amongst Lena, a woman who hardly knows her. 

Still, Amelie never really could figure out if Gerard ever knew or not. Surely if her husband understood what she did to herself, he’d speak out. Gerard never said anything, but Amelie became quite skilled at keeping this secret. Refraining from eating didn’t stop her mother-in-law’s cruelty, however. 

The guilt revolves around one simple thought: there’s no real reason to starve herself, not anymore. Her figure means nothing now. No mother-in-law to appease, no longer any other dancers to compete with for performance roles, no audience demanding she be as light on her feet as humanly possible. No, fate has made Amelie a widow. 

Nonetheless, when she looks in the mirror, all Amelie hears are critical voices inside of her head. 

Sometime’s, it’s Madame Isabelle Lacroix. _Oh you’re much too plain Amelie, too pale, too plump, too tall. If only you didn’t look so sad, Amelie, why you would look much prettier with color in your cheeks and--_

Other times, the voice of criticism is her own. Amelie has always been hardest on herself. Rising from poverty to the upper echelons of French society took hard work and sacrifice. More than blood and tears. Entering social circles far beyond her stature to prove herself, putting on new masks daily, becoming a new character in her real world drama took so much of her energy, her time, her well-being… 

At least when she met Gerard, much of this burden disappeared. Gerard never asked her to be something she was not. Her husband was kind, intelligent, and charitable. He made sure she never wanted for anything. They were going to grow old together: the professor and the ballerina. They would have retired together. Gerard gave her everything, almost but he could not escape the war draft. 

Now, in the wake of his death, such dreams seem so foolish. The war took everything from her. Maybe, if she’s lucky, it will take her too.

**x X x**

Amelie should have given the younger woman more credit. As loud and as scattered as Lena Oxton seems at times, she is also clever and astute. Amelie thought smaller details would simply slip past Lena’s observations, but to her surprise, this is not the case.

The confrontation happens one day in the kitchen of the Oxton family bakery, a small business on the ground floor of the apartment complex. Amelie sweeps the floor with a broom, idly ignoring the pain in the back of her skull and the dull ache in her stomach. Lena kneads dough at the table, humming along with a pleasant piano tune on the gramophone, seemingly without a care in the world. 

“Tomorrow I was thinkin’ maybe we could go down to the river and have a picnic. The storm ought to be passing through tonight, so it should be rather pretty out.” 

It’s one of her low days--days when she not only has no drive or motivation, there’s the added reality in which Amelie knows feeling this grief, after weeks have passed, is stupid, simply idiotic. A proper widow would have moved on already. A proper woman would have held her head high and pulled herself together. She isn’t the first woman to have lost a husband to war, she won’t be the last, after all. 

To Lena’s comment, Amelie cannot muster up a response other than a shrug. 

“I-I mean,” Lena says, “if you wanted to.” 

It’s awful moments like this when she knows Lena’s trying her best to be optimistic, to take her mind off of the grief. Amelie knows she’s sick, and the guilt hurts. Lena’s a sweet enough woman, she deserves more than nonverbal responses, long bouts of awkward silence, and cold body language. 

“If not it’s okay.” 

Amelie wishes Lena would go out more on her own for fun. She deserved to go out on beautiful sunny days and relax. Amelie could watch over the bakery, so there was no excuse. Why not invite that young man who stopped by last weekend to pick up banana bread, what was his name. Winston? Why couldn’t Lena invite him? If not the boy, why not ask her classmates? Her coworkers at the hotel? Why ask her? Surely there are people missing Lena, the girl spends far too much time around her. The last thing Amelie wants to do is suffocate Lena in her own melancholy. 

“Maybe some other time, then.” 

Amelie sighs, purses her brows, and starts to sweep more aggressively. Why couldn’t Lena just take the initiative and go on her own? Why couldn’t she just do something she wanted to do for her own sake? 

She starts to feel lightheaded. Stupid, foolish girl. She doesn’t want Lena’s pity, nor does she want her empty gestures. Lena shouldn’t look after her, she’s not a child. And why would she want some silly girl’s help anyways? It’s not like Lena actually cared. The woman’s simply an admirer, a hopeless one at that, mystified by her skill as a ballerina, nothing more. 

“Amelie?” 

The throbbing in her head grows worse. Truly, what was Lena looking for? Amelie knows she has fallen from her graces, lost control of herself, spiraled downward into complete obscurity. Why, what was the point of even staying here, in London? It’s not her home, it’s not--

“Amelie!”

Everything collapses in upon itself within the blink of an eye. One moment she’s on her feet, the next she’s laying on the ground, her head in Lena’s lap. How much time passed?

“Oh my God, Amelie, are you okay?” 

She looks up into Lena’s face, her vision blurry. She blinks several times to focus, and moments later, everything becomes clear again. Lena’s soft brown eyes are filled to the brim with tears. 

“What happened?” 

“You…” Lena takes a deep breath. “You fainted. You were sweeping one moment and then you collapsed and…” She sniffles. “God I was so scared you hit your head. I heard a crack, but it was thankfully just the broom. You landed on it funny.” 

“Apologies,” Amelie murmurs. She sits up slowly and runs a hand over her warm face. “I suppose I haven’t been feeling well today.” 

Lena’s gentle expression morphs into anger. “Really? You think? What gave you that idea?” 

Amelie raises a brow, surprised by the hostility. 

“Oh, what. You think I didn’t know? You’ve been lying. I suppose it was pretty stupid of me to think maybe you’d come around and get better on your own but I was wrong. I should’ve spoken up sooner. Done something. Silly me.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

A flimsy attempt at ignorance, one she knows won’t work. 

“Oh c’mon. Don’t do this, Amelie.” Lena’s frown deepens, and suddenly Amelie regrets lying again. “You barely eat. Whenever I come home and make dinner you tell me you’ve already had something. Whenever we eat together you hardly touch your food. At first I thought maybe you disliked my cooking--and that would’ve been fine, I know I’m terrible at it, but then I started noticing the pattern. Conveniently never hungry. Always eating whenever I’m away. Of course I noticed how much weight you’ve lost. You’re almost skin and bones, Amelie. You’re very pale. I understand you’re still grieving, as you have right to, but this… this is different. This is neglect.” 

Lena hesitantly reaches out and cups Amelie’s cheek. Her warm palm smells like flour. To Amelie, it’s the first physical contact she’s had in months. 

“Tell me I’m wrong, Amelie.” 

Amelie makes the mistake of looking into Lena’s eyes, and all truth is revealed whether she likes it or not. She’s too weak to continue the charade. 

“Listen to me. I can’t imagine the pain you felt losing your husband. I can’t imagine how much sadness you felt in the moment you learned of his death. To have it kept from you… that was unspeakably cruel.” Lena wipes a sliding tear away from Amelie’s cheek. “But would your husband want you to do this to yourself? Would he want you to waste away?” 

“It’s more complicated than that.” 

“No. It isn’t. Not really.” 

Amelie pushes away Lena’s comforting hand. “You wouldn’t get it.” 

“Oh yeah? Try me.”

Amelie scoffs. “Do you have any idea how hard I had to work in order to become a ballerina? How much I had to push myself in order to be noticed? Deemed capable enough to perform alongside fellow dancers who were ten times as beautiful, flexible, and graceful as me? I had to maintain my figure, at all cost, because I knew the moment I slipped up, my competition would step forward and replace me, and then that woman, she would laugh at me, she would tell me she knew all along I was a failure and--” 

“Wait. Who is ‘she’?” 

Amelie hesitates, as if invoking the name could summon the horrid wench herself. 

“Isabelle Lacroix. My husband’s mother. She thought I was beneath Gerard’s class. She used to remind me how plain I was, how dull my eyes were, or how matted my hair looked. Whenever we ate with her she would say perhaps I shouldn’t have stolen so much bread as a girl, telling me I was too fat, too plump, too unladylike. She never approved of me marrying her son, and she thought I had no skill as a ballerina. She was waiting for the day when I landed wrong and broke my neck. It never happened, but I suppose ruining my reputation in the papers was satisfactory enough for her tastes.” 

“God, Amelie, that’s terrible,” Lena murmurs in shock. She tilts her head, brows furrowing and asks, “You know that none of what she said is true, though, right? You are absolutely a fantastic ballerina, I mean I would know, I went to every show of yours that I could. But to think, if you were starving yourself all that time because you thought you had to… well, I wish you hadn’t. None of that is as important as your health and happiness. Hearing all that negativity, taking all that abuse…” 

“I wanted to be a dancer since I was a little girl. I made that choice from the beginning.” 

“That doesn’t mean it’s okay. Amelie what if something happened to you and no one was there to help you?” 

Amelie refrains from saying anything. It’s happened before. Countless times. One time Gerard even found her passed out, unconscious, at the first landing of their home’s staircase. She could have easily fallen backwards and snapped her neck or fractured her spine. But even then, so close to her own demise, she had lied her way out of it. Gerard, her love, had believed her. The doctor he had sent over believed her. All she wanted to do was be Gerard’s perfect wife and not worry him, or perhaps, at the very least, create less for him to worry about. 

“Amelie this is serious. I’m scared for you.” 

“Why are you so concerned?” 

“Because we’re friends. Or at least I thought we sort’ve were. I mean you’ve been kind enough, helpin’ me around the shop, and I thank you for that, but… you scare me sometimes. Sometimes I feel like everything I do to try and help make your world a little brighter… that it all means nothing. That it’s having no impact whatsoever.” Lena shakes her head. “And I get it, really, I do. Maybe it was really stupid of me to try, I just...”

“You cannot keep doting on me as if I am some invalid,” Amelie counters. “What about your work at the Alderworth? You should be more concerned with yourself. What else do you do other than tend to the shop and look after me? Don’t you have friends worried about you? Coworkers?”

“Uhm, well…” 

“And I thought you were a student with a job. Don’t you have your studies to attend to? Classes? Essays?” 

“I…” 

For the first time in over a month, Amelie’s curiosity is piqued--genuinely interested in something other than her own negative introspection. She glances toward Lena, who sits awkwardly beside her, flushing in embarrassment. 

“I’m not actually a student!” She blurts out. “Yeah. I… I only ever finished secondary school. And… and, oh, God. I’m sorry.” Lena’s eyes water with fresh tears. “I-I guess I’ve been lying too. I was fired from the Alderworth Hotel weeks ago. I… I lied because it’s just meeting you, talking to you… you’ve just been a huge inspiration to me, and I didn’t…” 

“You didn’t want to feel ashamed, is that it?” 

“Yeah.” Lena curls her hair behind her ear. “I was trying to balance two jobs and I… I’ve been told I I’ve got a hard time focusing, and I suppose that’s true. I was fired for getting caught writing, instead of looking after guests or cleaning.” 

That explains the scattered papers. Lena’s a writer after all.

“I’m not a student. I never went to university--and it wasn’t because I wasn’t smart! I mean I wanted to... but I couldn’t, not after the war started. I had to take over my father’s business. He ran a bakery. I have to look after it and make money for when he comes back home.”

Amelie purses her brows. “Is there no one else who can help manage the bakery?”

“Well, no.” Sorrow washes over Lena’s face. “It’s always just been me and papa. Mum was just kind of… well, she wasn’t good for dad, so thankfully she left. I can’t say we really have anyone else. It’s just been me and him. I had to do it.” She crosses one arm across her chest and shrugs. “I mean, I wanted to go to university, believe me, but we barely could make ends meet when he was here, and then he had to go, and it’s just been hard. I miss him so much. It’s hard being alone.” 

Alone. They’re both alone in different ways. This God forsaken war has taken something from both of them. 

“I lied because I didn’t want you to think less of me. First impressions and all that.” 

“Do you really think I am that shallow?”

“No! Of course not. It’s just… you’re Amelie Lacroix, famous French ballerina, an amazing artist, I mean…” 

Amelie narrows her gaze over Lena, who squirms beneath its scrutiny. Then, with a sigh, her expression relaxes. She herself was once this girl. Standing before a woman of higher status, a supplicant at the mercy of first impressions. Gerard’s mother had looked her over and saw only flaws. 

With newfound strength, Amelie stands from the floor of the bakery with grace in every movement despite having fainted recently. At full height, she almost towers over Lena. She brushes off her clothes and collects herself. 

“Uhm, Mrs. Lacroix--”

Amelie begins to sweep once more, but Lena stops her with a hand upon her shoulder. 

“Enough of that. You should eat something and rest.” 

Amelie sighs. “Fine, very well.” 

Lena pulls her along to one of the small back rooms of the bakery, where there is a single table and two chairs. She sits her down then hurries to the kitchen to make something to eat. When Lena returns several minutes later, she smiles half-heartedly and places a tray of cheese, ouf-d'oeuvres, bread, and hot tea before her. 

“I know it’s nothing special or fancy… everything else is still cooking.” 

Amelie’s stomach growls loudly. With a budding blush forming in her cheeks, she begins to eat, slowly, well aware that eating too quickly could upset her stomach. Across from her, Lena sits down and enjoys a cup of tea too. 

“This is more than fine, Miss Oxton.” 

“Okay, well that’s good.” She raises her mug to her lips and then murmurs, “I just want you to get better.” 

With some food in her stomach, Amelie feels the guilt settle into her heart, which begins to race painfully. 

“I-I am truly sorry, Lena,” she says in a hushed tone. “Je suis très désolée.” 

Lena lowers her cup. Her thumb traces the curve of the handle idly as she sits in thought. 

“Listen. I understand you’re still grieving over your husband, Mr. Lacroix. I can’t imagine how painful it is, being without him. I know that hurt. You know my friend, Winston, he lost his father to the war too. I saw first hand what that loss did to him. His entire world had just caved in upon itself. He was about to give up on his dreams. He’s been goin’ to university these past few years, studying physics, and I was afraid he was going to be kicked out cause his grades had started slipping.” Lena takes a deep breath. “So I told told him that his father wouldn’t want that. That no matter what happens you can’t give up on your dreams, not when everyone you love’s cheerin’ you on. You know, it’s hard. I miss my father dearly, and I hope and pray that maybe he’ll come home someday soon, but I can’t give up on today. Maybe I can’t change the past or predict the future, but I have the power to change today. My father taught me that.” 

Lena reaches out across the table and cover’s Amelie’s hand with her own. “I didn’t know Gerard, but I can tell that you loved each other very much.” 

Tears fill Amelie’s eyes. She remembers the evening before Gerard had to leave for the draft. They sat together before their warm hearth, holding one another. On that evening, Gerard seemed cognizant of the looming spectre of his own demise. 

_Darling, I know history, I know war. If something should happen, I want you to know that no matter what, I love you. If I should die for France, I want you to move on. Do not grieve long for me. Be happy. Be strong. Smile again. Can you do that for me, Amelie?_

At the time, Amelie had been unable to give her husband the answer he wanted, perhaps even needed. The thought of losing Gerard seemed so unfathomable. In the late summer of 1914, everyone thought the war would end quickly. Then, as months passed, that reality became shattered. Gerard never came home. 

“I don’t think Gerard would want to see you like this, Mrs. Lacroix. I think he would want to see you staying healthy and strong.” 

“I can’t dance again. I won’t.” 

“No one’s asking you to continue to be a ballerina, but you need to take care of yourself. You don’t have to do any of this alone. I’m here to help. We’re friends, luv.” 

“Friends?” 

Lena draws back her hand away from Amelie’s, to scratch behind her neck. “Oh. Uh, well, uhm, yeah? I mean, I think you’re very charming and helpful? I mean I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, I mean…” 

“You’re very kind.” Amelie rubs at her eyes. “I feel as if all I have been is a burden upon your shoulders since we met.” 

“No, that’s not true at all. Don’t say that. I understand it’s difficult. You were in a rough spot for a long time with that monster of a woman, but none of what she said is true. I’ve always thought of you as rather gorgeous, beautiful really, I mean...”

Lena trails off abruptly and turns red. Amelie giggles to herself, and the light laughter helps ease the look of mortification upon the younger woman’s face. 

“What I’m trying to say is that none of what she said is true. Plus, you know I think you’re very talented too as a ballerina, but at the same time, if I knew all along you did this to yourself, not eating, hiding those secrets, thinking of yourself so negatively… well, I wouldn’t have wanted you to dance at all. It’s not worth it. Bein’ in good health’s more important.” 

Amelie meets Lena’s eyes and sees the worry brewing there like a storm. Lena reaches out and covers her hand over Amelie’s.

“Promise me you won’t lie anymore. Promise me you’ll try to take care of yourself better.” 

Gerard’s words echo in her thoughts. 

_Promise me you’ll move on and be happy again, Amelie._

This time, Amelie nods. “Very well, Lena. I promise.” 

Relief washes over Lena’s youthful features. “Cross your heart?” 

“Cross my heart.”

**x X x**

Months pass. Seasons change, from winter to spring. Since swearing a vow to take care of herself, Amelie’s health gradually begins to improve. Her spirits rise, like a phoenix from ashes, and Amelie begins to feel more like herself again, like the woman she once was before the war began.

They work together in the Oxton family bakery, falling into a routine. Lena manages the baking while Amelie tends to customers at the front counter. It’s not a busy shop most days, but faithful patrons come regularly. Winston, Lena’s best friend, stops by often to pick up his favorite dessert, banana bread. He’s a sweet man, tall and lanky in his collared shirts and oversized sweaters, with rimmed glasses too big for his face. He’s shy, a student studying physics at university to continue his father’s research one day. Through him, Amelie learns more about Lena. Old stories pass back and forth between Lena and Winston of their early youth growing up together. Knowing that Lena has a friend like Winston helps Amelie relax; at least they could be there for each other during trying times. 

When it’s just her and Lena in the shop alone together, Lena talks almost nonstop. She shares everything about herself, from her favorite colors (orange and blue), to her love of dance and lively music, to retelling tales of her youth with the gusto of an adventure novel. Lena’s energy and enthusiasm almost seems endless, like a fountain flowing over its banks, and sometimes Amelie has a hard time keeping up with her. 

There are still bad days, but they become fewer. Much of her strength returns with a consistent diet, and so, she puts it to work. She helps Lena balance her shop's finances, manage the inventory of baked goods, and run occasional errands. Whenever she comes home from the shopping, Lena’s smiles leave Amelie feeling breathless. She can’t help but return a smile in kind when Lena looks her way. There’s something about the young woman that makes her feel as if she found a true gift in spite of her misfortune. 

With physical strength comes newfound mental clarity, and with mental clarity comes noticing the subtleties in her friend’s behavior. While Lena enjoys working in the bakery, talking with her friend Winston, and managing the apartment, Amelie notices the fractures in her friend’s optimism. Sometimes, her smiles seem more hollow, more empty than full. Sometimes, Lena looks tired, exhausted, perhaps even fed up with her lot in life. 

Amelie knows the look well--it’s the look of someone who feels boxed in, trapped, restrained, as if they’re not meeting their potential. She herself often felt that way before becoming a professional ballerina. It saddens her to see Lena this way, living like a cog in a machine. For someone who could write such imaginative, creative stories of characters going on grand adventures, reality fared differently for Lena. 

So, Amelie chooses to do something about this, for better or for worse. She has the money from her husband’s will, the time, and more energy. After taking, taking, and taking for so long, she decides that now is the time to give something in return. 

“What university had you hoped to attend?” Amelie asks one evening over dinner. 

“What?” Lena glances up, away from her soup to meet Amelie’s gaze. “What do you mean?”

Amelie smiles playfully. “Perhaps I shall rephrase my question. If you could attend any university, which would it be?” 

“I…” Lena’s brows furrow in confusion. “I mean I don’t know, I hadn’t really--” She starts to stumble over her words. “I-I mean, why are you asking this? I mean, sure, I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know, I…” 

“Mademoiselle Oxton. Everyone who aspires to attend university has some idea of a school they would like to study at. You will need to think on your feet if you hope to keep up with your peers.” 

“Mrs. Lacroix, really,” Lena sighs, her gaze dropping to the contents in her bowl. “This is unnecessary.” 

“Which school? Tell me.” 

“I-I don’t know, I… I guess…” Lena trails off, murmuring under her breath. “The University of London, I suppose, but that’s outrageous… I would never be accepted.” 

“And why is that?” 

“Because yeah, sure, alright, I’m clever, but being clever doesn’t get you far.” 

Amelie never doubted Lena’s humility, but this is simply ridiculous. “You write well, there’s no need to be modest.”

“That’s not fair. I didn’t share my writing with you just for you to use it against me.” 

Amelie rolls her eyes. “Offering compliments where compliments are due is not ‘using it against you.’”

“Well it doesn’t matter if I write good--write _well_ \--or not. Because let’s face it, Amelie, I’m nothing special. I’m not wealthy, hardly posh, I’m just the daughter of a baker. Worked all my life. I’m no one.” 

“Nonsense.” 

“I couldn’t even afford to attend even if I wanted to, Mrs. Lacroix.” 

“Money will not be an issue. If you have an interest in attending, I’ll provide you whatever funds you need. I can manage your father’s bakery while you study for entrance exams. I know my way around the shop.”

“I’m not going to take your hard earned--”

“It would be from Gerard’s will, what he left for me. He left it behind in my name, therefore I have the authority to use it as I wish.” 

“Listen, that’s awfully nice of you, really,” Lena says through gritted teeth. “My father didn’t raise me to be a pauper and I’m not about to become one. I don’t need charity.” 

Amelie snorts. So perhaps Lena does have some fire in her after all. “It’s hardly charity. Be reasonable, Lena. I am _offering_ to help you through university. Think of it as… _sponsoring_ your education. Or perhaps, if you would prefer, it would be like a wealthy patron supporting an artist. You are an artist, non? An artist of words?” Amelie leans forward and smiles half-heartedly. “Look into my eyes and tell me you have never thought of seeing your work published.”

“You mean all that rubbish? It’s _garbage_ , Amelie. Don’t be daft.” 

Amelie’s brows narrow. She stands from the kitchen table, her chair skidding against the wooden floor, and she stalks over to the other side, where Lena sits. She stops before Lena, leans against the table’s edge, and folds her arms across her chest. 

“Do not talk about yourself like that. You are a talented young woman, and I see so much potential in you. I was once like you, afraid of what others would think of my skill as a dancer, but my mother, she would come across the room to wherever I was and she would stand in front of me, just like this. She would force me to look at her, and she would tell me, without blinking, without flinching, that if I ever wanted to become the ballerina I always dreamed of becoming, I had to overcome my own self-doubt first. No one will ever take your art seriously if they see that not even you believe in it. If your work lacks confidence, others will see this, and your own doubts, your fears, they will haunt you, never let you sleep, never let you succeed. She would say that doubt is like a spider, you can be afraid of it, but you have to be strong enough to kill it when it stands between you and your dreams.” 

To Amelie, Lena looks so small, so crestfallen. Amelie’s never seen her friend like this before, nervous, afraid, uncertain. 

“All this talk about school, about my writing... it’s all just fantasies, why they might as well be a fairy tale, and that’s okay, truly. I mean yeah, I do enjoy writin’, but it’s just a hobby. I mean, I’ve got the shop, that’s more important. All this, it’s enough for me, really.” 

“Those fantasies can be _real_ , Lena. You have helped me so much these past several months. I want to give something back in return. Give me the chance to do something that can make you happy.” 

Lena squirms in her chair, blushing beneath her wispy brown bangs. “I’m not sure about this, Amelie… I’d have to study for tests, you’d have to do more at the bakery. What about your health?”

“There is a phrase in French, à cheval donné on ne regarde pas les dents. It means don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. This is my gift to you.” Amelie shrugs. “Think about it tonight. Whatever you should decide, tomorrow I am going to go down to the post to send a letter to my husband’s lawyer in Paris to sell items in our estate. That will provide the funds for your schooling.” 

Lena opens her mouth to speak, Amelie raises her hand dismissively. 

“I’ll hear none of it, Lena. Material things mean little to me, these days. Anything sentimental about the time I shared with my husband is with me, now. You and your future mean more to me than trinkets and furniture.” 

Amelie stands upright, but before she can return to her side of the table, Lena takes her hand and draws her back into a tight hug. Lena buries her head into Amelie’s chest, hiding the fresh tears that have spilled from her brown eyes. 

“Thanks, Amelie.” Lena takes a deep, shaky breath. “If you’re sure about this, then I’m gonna do it.”

Amelie pats her back gently and then steps back with a soft smile. She ruffles Lena’s messy brown hair, making the younger woman laugh aloud. 

“Oi! You’re gonna mess up my hair!” 

“It was already messy to begin with,” Amelie teases and then laughs. “Do you even run a brush through it?”

Lena groans and starts to collect the dishes. “I happen to like it this way!” 

That night, as they wash the dishes together and talk about Lena’s plans to prepare for the entrance exams, Amelie feels genuinely happy. The happiest she has felt since her husband’s death. For the first time in months, the world seems more colorful, more complete. Lena’s smile brightens that world. Perhaps, she thinks, there can be life after Gerard’s death.

**x X x**

When Amelie discovers that Lena Oxton’s optimism does have limits, it’s in the worst way imaginable.

She comes home from touring the market to find the apartment quiet--too quiet for Lena, who always plays music in her flat while cooking supper.

“Lena?” 

The apartment remains still in silence. No one comes out to greet her from one of the small rooms. The apartment feels as cold as a morgue. Lena was supposed to be home. After all, she was planning on baking a cake for Winston’s birthday while Amelie was gone… 

Amelie’s heart begins to stutter painfully in her chest. Her thoughts race a kilometer a minute. What if something happened to Lena? There’s no sign of forced entry. Nothing is out of place, except for an empty space on the wall, where normally a photograph of Lena and her father rests. Amelie begins to search for Lena in the small apartment, calling out to her in a panic. There’s only so many places for her to be, and yet, she’s so small, what if… What if she’s hurt, collapsed, in pain, unconscious, or… 

Amelie finds a crumpled newspaper on the ground in the kitchen. She leans down to pick it up, and a front page headline catches her attention. 

_RAF SOLDIERS AT ARRAS DECLARED OFFICIALLY MISSING, OFFICER CONCLUDES_

Amelie’s heart drops into her stomach. 

“Non, non, non, Dieu, _Lena._ ” 

Lena hasn’t shared much about her father and his service, but she knows enough to remember her mentioning information from his letters she used to receive. Lena shared that her father was serving near Arras. That was the last letter. From _months_ ago. Since then, Charles Oxton hasn’t responded to any of her letters. 

Amelie abandons the paper to race through the flat in a panic. She notices this time that Lena’s door is slightly ajar, an unusual sight. On the other side, Amelie hears muffled sobs. 

Without asking for permission, Amelie steps inside and finds Lena sitting on the floor, against the wall, with her knees pulled to her chest. She’s clutching onto the photograph that used to reside in her sitting room. Her brown eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and her freckled cheeks are tear stained. 

“Lena, mon Dieu.” 

Amelie doesn’t hesitate. She rushes to Lena’s side and pulls her into her arms, as if to protect her. Lena stiffens, but she doesn’t fight or try to push away. Instead, she clutches back, gripping Amelie’s blue blouse and sobbing hard into the soft cloth. Amelie lays her head against Lena’s and runs a comforting hand through her short brown hair. 

No words can provide Lena the comfort she needs--Amelie knows this pain well. The horrifying, startling truth. Cold, bitter reality. Charles Oxton could very well be dead. And yet, it’s not a solid answer. Witnesses saw her husband die in the trenches. Declared missing is not the same as declared dead. 

“I’m scared, Amelie.” Lena chokes out.

Her heart aches. Lena’s trembling voice shakes her to the core and sends shivers down her spine. The thought of Lena going through the soul-wrenching sadness of grief from this war terrifies Amelie. Lena’s too cheerful, too bright, too hopeful. To see those qualities crushed… it would break Amelie. 

“There is still hope. Do not give up yet.” Amelie rubs her shoulder and gives it a comforting squeeze. “I have faith.” 

Lena sniffles, opens her eyes, and meets Amelie’s gaze. They stare at one another in silence, and to Amelie, she has never seen Lena this fractured, this worried, nor this afraid. The status of her father’s life is in limbo; a tidal wave of doubt against a small ship of hope. 

“I am right here.” 

Lena moves further into her arms, light as a doll, and Amelie pulls her up onto her feet. 

“Come, let’s get you into bed so you can rest. I will make you some hot tea.” 

“No, wait,” Lena says, her eyes glassy as new tears threaten to spill. “I mean, could you… would you just stay with me? Please? I don’t think I can bear being alone right now.” 

Amelie imagines there will be nightmares tonight. A spectre of death haunts over Lena, who looks so small, so pale, standing before her. 

“Very well. Whatever you need.” 

That night, Amelie doesn’t sleep. She lays beside Lena, staring up at the ceiling and holding her against her chest, their fingers interlaced together.

**x X x**

They fall back into routine as the war on the continent rages on. Only a single light shines on the horizon: the hope of a negotiated armistice between the two sides.

With the status of Charles Oxton, Lena’s father, continuing to remain in limbo, Amelie does what she can to keep her friend on track with her plans for university. Entrance exams begin at the end of the summer. They only have so much time to prepare. Arithmetic, language, and writing. So, they make the best of it. Amelie knows much about the exams; Gerard worked on the committee that oversaw acceptance to the history department at his university. Frequently he would divulge details about the new applications they received. 

Amelie quizzes Lena on English vocabulary to help her memorize new words and their roots. Often, the experience becomes shared in deeper ways--they teach each other idioms in their respective first languages. They focus on math while baking or handling the cash register to keep Lena sharp. As for the writing portion, they debate current issues together to help Lena craft stronger arguments. Their discussions sometimes become heated, but in a good, invigorating way--a way that Amelie finds compelling and endearing. Lena has so much passion, such drive, and for the first time in years, Amelie feels a similar spark to keep Lena on her toes. 

Talking over dough and other baked goods calms Amelie, and to an extent, it revives some of Lena’s carefree nature, but never fully. Lena worries for her father, as she should, but Amelie does her best to keep Lena to her own advice. Live for today, live in the moment, and hold onto hope. 

Nonetheless, the distraction of preparing for the exams sometimes isn’t enough for Lena. Some days, fear weighs too heavily upon her shoulders. On those days, they close the bakery and the books and instead sit by the small hearth with tea. They exchange few words, and often Lena can hardly speak. 

Amelie does what she can to take care of Lena and ease every day burdens, taking a turn handling their meals, cleaning around the apartment, running the errands. Her own bad days still come, where her physical strength is sapped, even if her mental acuity remains strong. Coughing spells become more frequent. Years of intense physical training and poor diet finally catch up with her. She comes to the realization that despite her age, she’s no longer a young woman.

**x X x**

“So how do you think I’m comin’ along?” Lena asks one summer day while molding balls of dough and placing each one on a tray. “Think I’ll be able to pass?”

Amelie stirs from her thoughts and unfolds her arms across her chest, “Yes, without a doubt.” 

“I’m serious! Be honest, I can take it.” 

“I am being serious, I assure you. I think you are an intelligent woman and you will pass.” 

“Aw, gee Amelie that’s sweet of you,” she says bashfully. “Y’know I couldn’t do any of this without your help.” 

“I am sure you could have,” Amelie smiles, “but I am happy to offer my support.” 

Lena stares at her, without blinking, without looking away. Suddenly Amelie feels as if she’s underneath the spotlight upon a stage under the scrutiny of an audience. Then, she hardens her nerves. She was a ballerina, she was the star of every show, and so she digs deep, searching for the confidence she once exuded with every flawlessly executed step. 

Amelie stands from her chair and crosses the bakery’s kitchen. She stops beside Lena and leans back against the edge of the table where she sits. She looks over Lena and sighs wistfully. Lena’s hands are covered in flour and somehow she managed to get some onto her face and brown hair. There’s something so charming, so special, so effortlessly admirable about Lena, who carries her burdens with a different kind of poise. 

For the first time in months, Amelie feels as if color has returned to her once monochromatic vision. Despite the news they received weeks ago that cast a spell upon this home, this business, Amelie has noticed changes within herself. Seeing Lena crumbled upon her bedroom floor terrified her. Seeing Lena at her lowest, at a breaking point, balancing upon the most precarious tightrope awoke something within her. A desperate need to return the graciousness, selflessness, and compassion Lena showed to her in the winter weeks of December when she learned of Gerard’s passing. 

Something new blossoms within Amelie with this realization. She can once again think of Gerard without feeling the cold grip of despair. She can remember fond memories she had of him without feeling as if her future looks bleak in comparison. No, Amelie begins to think of her own future. What would she do? Could she stay here, in London, for the rest of her life? When she looked to Lena moments ago, she decided that yes, she wanted to--if her companion would have her. 

Amelie never gave much power to religion, to faith, but she wonders about Gerard, and if he is looking after her. Before he left for the front, Gerard told her to be prepared for the worst. 

_I know history, I know war, and the ends never change, even if the means do. Many of us will die. I may die, Amelie. Should I pass, please, do not despair. Be strong and find happiness again, chérie. Find someone who will make you happy, and I shall love them with eternal gratitude._

“You alright there, Amelie?”

Amelie stirs from her thoughts. She turns her head sharply and sees Lena staring at her peculiarly. 

“I was just thinking, that’s all.” 

Lena nods and returns to creating balls of dough methodically. To Amelie, it appears as if her friend is consumed in her own thoughts too. Lena is far too quiet. 

Amelie places her hand upon Lena’s shoulder, and Lena stops once again, this time with a brow raised. 

Before Lena can say anything else, Amelie reaches out tentatively and wipes off a smudge of flour off of one of Lena’s freckled cheeks with her thumb. “You are a very kind, selfless woman, Lena Oxton.” She swallows thickly as her heart begins to pound painfully in her chest. Her thumb trails lower, toying with the corner of Lena’s lips, which part in a silent gasp. “I know I am not easy to live with, but I want you to know that I have found a new kind of joie de vivre with you.” 

“A-Amelie…” Lena’s cheeks turn pink. “I’m touched, but you’re not hard to live with at all, I mean I’ve really loved havin’ the company around, and I mean it’s probably harder livin’ with me, let’s be completely honest. I mean I constantly talk and I’m the messiest person alive and I’ve been glum lately, I know, but…” She trails off, her eyes glancing down at Amelie’s full lips. “I-I’m really bad at this…” 

Amelie laughs softly and shakes her head. “No worse than myself.” 

Unspoken words are exchanged in their glance. Their hands meet, joining together, and a spark passes between them. This feels good. Right. 

“I’ve wanted to do this for awhile...” Lena confesses in a murmur before sitting up straight, leaning forward, and brushing her lips gently against Amelie’s. She pulls away with a soft, pleasant smile, as if the gesture has restored some of that sunny happiness that Amelie has come to adore. “I hope that was alright.” 

“Oui.” Amelie sighs to herself as she looks into Lena’s warm brown eyes. “C'était magnifique. You are a good kisser.” 

“Ugh, the way you said that. Could almost make a girl melt, you.” 

Amelie grins. “Perhaps I should let you return to your work, before your rolls become green with jealousy.” 

“Tease.” 

Before Amelie has a chance to respond, they hear hard pounding on the front door of the bakery. They left the “closed” sign on the window--the early summer storm outside drew away any customers they might have had today--so this comes as a surprise. 

“You keep working, chérie,” Amelie says with a happy blush. “I will go see who it is.” 

“Okay, but don’t let any of that storm in!” 

Amelie chuckles. “I won’t, I won’t.”

She passes through the door to the bakery’s shop area and goes to the entrance. The pounding continues, more urgent than before. Who would have gone out into the storm to come to a bakery? Through the window, she can’t tell who’s out there--the heavy rain drops have blurred the glass. She unlocks the door and opens it to see Winston on the other side. With wet hair, spotted glasses, and his clothes soaked through despite standing on their doorstep for but a few minutes, he leaves Amelie breathless in worry. 

“Amelie? Where’s Lena?” He takes a deep breath. “I have to talk to her. It’s about her father. They found him. I heard he’s injured and in terrible condition…” 

From behind, Amelie hears the kitchen door slam. Amelie’s heart sinks. Lena was eavesdropping. 

“Papa? Papa’s back?” 

She turns and sees Lena already pulling on her coat and rushing to the door. 

“Lena, wait--I’ve been told he’s in surgery, he’s--” 

“How did you learn about this? Where is he, Winston?” 

“I have a friend who is working in medical on the base… she’s a nurse, I asked her to tell me if she ever saw a soldier named Charles Oxton to tell me, and today she phoned my department and--” 

“He’s at the base, in surgery? How bad is he? Oh God, what if…” Fat tears begin to slide down her cheeks. “Winston, can you drive us, please? I need to be there for him.” 

“I… I don’t know if they’ll let you see him, but okay, Lena.” 

During the drive to the base, Lena lays her head against Amelie’s shoulder, sobbing quietly. All Amelie can do is hold her hand and run her fingers through Lena’s soft hair.

**x X x**

The storm covering London that night may end in the days to come, but a new, more ominous storm will continue in the days that followed.

Everything that happens in this evening alone takes place in slow motion to Amelie. Winston drives as fast as he can, rushing Lena and Amelie to the hospital. When they arrive, the surprised staff have to control Lena, who frantically does all she can to see her father. They are told that Charles Oxton is out of surgery, wounded and malnourished, but nonetheless alive. 

_I need to see him, I need to know he’s okay, I need to, please, please, he’s my papa, he’s my--_

Despite forcing her way through, the guard standing outside of Charles’s room has no choice but to grab Lena as she tries to reach her father. Both Amelie and Winston try to comfort and reassure Lena, but the young girl falls to her knees and breaks down before them.

After being escorted to a waiting room, they spend several long hours anxiously testing their patience before a doctor can speak to them about Mr. Oxton’s condition. Despite being separated from his squadron for several months he’s in better health than the medical staff originally feared. His right leg took the brunt of all the trauma: whatever happened to Charles that resulted in his disappearance--likely a crash, they were told, his leg must have been broken, twisted, unable to be reset properly, and possibly infected. The doctor does his best to assure Lena that her father’s malnourishment was to be expected as a missing soldier of war. The various superficial wounds across Charles’s body were presumed to be from his time alone working his way back to the English front. More explicit details of regarding the circumstances of his disappearance are deemed classified.

Overall, the doctor appears optimistic. He tells them that Charles will recover fully but will have difficulty walking. He will need a cane for the rest of his life. Even though the war continues on, he will not be able to return to for the RAF. Thus, the doctor clears him to be honorably discharged from service. 

For but a moment, Amelie sees light return to her Lena’s eyes, only to have it fade moments later as the realization washes over her. She almost lost her father. The innocence of her youth has been shattered; the mortality of their lives now feels real. 

Lena spends the rest of the evening silent after her initial outburst. It’s unnerving to both Amelie and Winston to see the stark contrast in their friend’s affect. To Amelie, Lena always seemed to be a ray of sunshine. Something so special, so precious. Seeing Lena like this, with her heart so weary, breaks her too. All she wanted was for the war to spare Lena from the same pain it caused her.

**x X x**

After three weeks of hospital care and classified debriefings with his superior’s, the Royal Air Force is finished with using Charles Oxton as an instrument of war. They bring him home, back to the apartment and bakery.

At first, Amelie follows Lena’s lead--this is after all, her home, her father--but Lena makes sure she feels welcome. 

_You’re family now, luv. I want you to be here._

So Amelie takes it to heart. After living with Lena for over half a year, she’s learned that her friend and partner has her heart on her sleeve. Down to earth and honest, when Lena says something, she means it deeply. 

For Lena, having her father home seems to be enough to quell many of her old fears and anxieties. However, as time passes, new worries develop. No matter how hard Lena tries to help her father settle back into old routines, he struggles. Charles Oxton is no longer the man he once was, and this realization has its complexities, its nuances. To Amelie, the change cannot be so simply described in black nor white.

Physically, Charles Oxton comes out of his service comparatively better than many soldiers Amelie has seen over the years. He suffers from a bad knee and he’ll need help walking for the rest of his life. He moves slower and has trouble with the three flights of stairs leading down to the bakery. His hands tremble, and on colder days, his joint pain is worse. 

Mentally, Lena’s father has lost something. Amelie may not have personally known Charles Oxton before the war, but she knows Charles has changed in the moments she observes where Lena tries to talk to him. Getting more than a few words from Charles is difficult, and Amelie suspects Charles once used to be as talkative and bright as his daughter. Now, there are lapses in his memory, slowness in his cognition, and days where he cannot speak even as frustration marks his features. Other days, Charles wallows in his own memories of the war, where he sits in a chair by the window and rubs his knee in silence. At night, he suffers from insomnia. When his body simply shuts down in exhaustion, he sleeps restlessly, and often Lena has no choice but to wake him, even if he needs his rest. 

Underneath these struggles, Amelie observes glimpses of a man who knows he has changed and who mourns the loss of his old self. Charles tries his best to hide this from Lena, but his daughter knows otherwise. 

Simultaneously, Amelie sees similar changes in Lena--grieving for the loss of a father who once smiled effortlessly, who could make her laugh to tears, who had such passion for living despite the difficult hand he had been dealt, and who always seemed solid to Lena. 

_My father is like a lion, the bravest man I know, Lena once described to Amelie. I want to be as fearless as him, as courageous as him. He has always stood up for the little guy. Even when mum left, he kept his head held high, and he’s always been there for me with endless love._

The love hasn’t faded. Even if Lena’s heart has broken, it isn’t beyond repair.  
Even if Amelie sees fractures in Charles, the love for his daughter still remains. 

_I had to come back for you. That’s all you need to know about what happened,_ Charles told Lena in the hospital. _Don’t worry about me. Keep your chin up._

Amelie watches the changing dynamics in the Oxton family’s relationship with sadness wedged deep in her heart. In many ways, she understands now how Lena felt as an observer watching on as she grieved her own late husband. Determination she hasn’t known since her youth as an up-and-coming ballerina returns. She takes on extra work around the bakery in spite of Lena’s insistence on taking recovery slow. The last thing Amelie wants to do is be a burden to Lena, who tries to maintain a cheery facade.

Amelie knows better. 

In the quiet hours of the night when peace falls over the apartment, Lena takes off her mask and emotions come forward like water from a dam--she holds Amelie tight, shaking, crying softly into her chest, and mourns. With the small step they made in their relationship before learning of her father’s return, Lena has at least become more forthcoming about her secrets. 

Amelie laments the fate that has befallen Lena and her father, but she stays strong for herself and for her newfound loved ones. She never expected to find someone who would bring her out of darkness and back into the light, and most significantly, in Lena, Winston, and Charles, she has found a new family.

**x X x**

Trouble strikes again in late fall, even as the war finally comes to an end in 1918.

Amelie’s best efforts to stay healthy aren’t enough--she becomes plagued by harsh coughing spells and shortness of breath. At the insistence of Lena and Winston, Amelie allows for a doctor to visit the apartment. The prognosis isn’t grave, but it isn’t good as well--chronic respiratory sensitivities and digestive issues that would require a strict diet. 

At the same time, Charles’ health begins to deteriorate further. He becomes unresponsive to all attempts at conversation, his appetite disappears, and his motivation to help around the apartment and bakery wittles. 

_No matter what I do, I can’t reach him. If I can’t reach him, Amelie, then what am I going to do?_

Amelie bears witness to Lena rapidly approaching a breaking point, like a car barreling towards a cliff’s edge. After living with her for almost a year, she knows Lena is too proud to seek help on her own. So, Amelie reaches out to Winston, who gives advice that she takes to heart.

“Perhaps a change of environment is necessary. It seems as if entropy is only on the rise, and without changing the variables, the situation will only worsen.” 

“What if we left London? I have money. We could go wherever Lena and her father wanted. They could find somewhere new to live, perhaps America. 

Winston adjusts his glasses and nods. “I have colleagues who have moved across the sea. I think staying here, with the papers talking only of the war and its end, with the noise and cramped nature, perhaps it’s too much for Mr. Oxton. Living in a city like this can be very suffocating.” 

“Are you suggesting we leave London?” 

Amelie and Winston turn to the doorway, where Lena stands. She must have overheard their conversation from the kitchen. She looks exhausted, with deep rings under her eyes. For running a bakery, Lena has grown skinnier. 

“I think a change of scenery might be best, chérie. America would be somewhere new. Somewhere far away from the war.” 

“I-I can’t afford that. Even if I could sell everything. I don’t have that kind of money.” 

“We will use the money from my estate to pay for passage aboard a ship and then we can find a new home.” 

“Perhaps, uh, you could all go West. Medical science I’m afraid has never been my forte, but maybe a warmer, drier climate could help Amelie here. More consistent sunshine could help your father and you, too, Lena.” 

Lena blinks as she mulls over the suggestion. Amelie wonders if the thought of leaving ever crossed her mind. 

“I… I don’t know about this. What about the shop? What about you, Winston? You can’t come. You still have university…” 

“You know, I do believe you enjoy writing. Perhaps we could become pen pals.” He smiles softly. “You are my best friend, but I care about you too much to see you this way. You helped me after father died. It’s time I returned the favor. If moving elsewhere means there’s a chance you and your father can find happiness, then I will ensure it happens.” 

“ _Winston._ ” Lena’s eyes fill with tears. She rushes forward and embraces him tightly. 

He holds her back and says, “As my father once told me, dare to believe there is more out there, just waiting for you on the horizon.” 

They pull apart. Lena wipes at her eyes and turns to Amelie. She reaches out and takes her hand and squeezes it. 

“You really think we can do this?” 

Amelie nods. “Oui, avec tout mon coeur.” 

Lena takes a deep, shaky breath. “Okay. Then let’s do this. Together.”

**x X x**

“Amelie? Hey Amelie, you alright there, luv?”

Amelie’s eyes flutter open. She blinks and realizes that at some point, she must have slumped over against the table and fallen asleep. There’s a blanket over her shoulders. After stretching and straightening her back, she turns her head to the side and sees Lena leaning against the table’s edge with her arms folded across her chest. 

“Désolé. I must have dozed off after… I was reminiscing. I suppose I was tired.” Amelie glances around the porch. The sun has fallen closer to the horizon, and so the children have come inside for supper. “Where did the others go?” 

“Father’s inside helping the Lindholms with dinner. Genji came by and picked up Angela an hour ago--I guess they’ve got a special little evening planned. Fareeha took Hana back home. Ana’s helping Reinhardt and Torbjörn with the sink repairs--they needed a pair of smaller hands, I think.” 

Amelie reaches out and intertwines her fingers with Lena’s. Immediately, she feels a comforting, reassuring squeeze in return. It’s such a simple gesture, and yet its impact cannot be measured. Seeing Lena at her side, happy and healthy with her, is sometimes so hard to believe. Thinking of those moments when she heard the news of Gerard’s death, anything could have happened on those rainy London streets. Instead, in that cold, lonely alleyway, Amelie met someone special, someone she has come to love and care for deeply over the years. To think, if she had taken a different turn, if her stumbled steps had taken her elsewhere… Amelie doesn’t like thinking about the alternative. 

“Do you miss London Lena?”

Lena tilts her head to the side, “Hey. What brought this on?”

“Merely a question,” Amelie murmurs. She tries to mask the desperation in her voice. Some words she can’t say aloud, they catch on her tongue. After all they went through to arrive here, Amelie hopes that in spite of all the obstacles they faced, that in the end, it was worth it. 

“Mostly I just miss Winston. He was always there for me, but I know he’s all well and good back in London.” Lena shrugs. “But I don't regret leaving if that's what you're asking. Bein’ here with you and papa makes me happy.” Lena bends down and places a kiss upon Amelie’s forehead. “Wouldn’t change any of this for the world, dear. This place is home, and it’s good for us.

With a smile and a wink that makes Amelie’s heart skip in her chest, Lena pulls Amelie out of her chair. They embrace. As Amelie lays her head against Lena’s, they hear the faint crackle of a record beginning to play inside the house, then boisterous jazz. 

“C’mon, let’s head in. Dinner’s starting to smell amazing, and maybe we can share a dance before we eat.” 

Amelie smiles back. She may no longer be a ballerina, but she’ll dance through life at Lena Oxton’s side.


	23. The Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the shade of a tree, two lovers spend their afternoon together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains NSFW, explicit sexual content.

It's a fine, beautiful summer day in mid-June, and Angela Ziegler has never felt happier. 

Earlier today, Genji stopped by her home and invited her out to go on a picnic. 

_Angela, you have been working far too hard lately,_ he told her that morning. _I found this ridge a few weeks ago when my brother and I went out to spar. It has a lovely view, a few trees to offer shade, and some grass to spread out a blanket. You could use a break. We can take lunch and relax. The town will manage without you for a few hours._

Angela said yes, persuaded by his promise of much needed relaxation before seeing her late afternoon patient, Amelie. She changed into something more comfortable: a mauve shirt and a yellow jumper while Genji put together a picnic basket of bread, cheese, grapes, and a canteen of water. They rode out on horseback into the high desert. Twenty minutes passed before they arrived at the secluded spot Genji had described. Atop a small foothill, they could see the landscape down below. A few trees offered much-needed shade from the summer heat they were used to. 

"Would you like more bread, Angela?" 

Stirred from her thoughts, Angela shakes her head with a smile. 

"No, thank you."

Genji hums thoughtfully. "Still have your mind on work?" 

"Well, yes and no. I only have one appointment scheduled later, and later on this week there will be a few long days as I--"

"Don't worry about any of that for right now," Genji says, leaning close to whisper the words into her ear. "Don't think about town. I want you to relax. You need to, Angela." 

She swallows thickly. His murmured words in her ear send shivers down her spine. She has known Genji long enough to realize that his voice makes her insides melt. Genji, of course, realized this quickly too. 

He takes the canteen out of her hands and places it beside them. 

"I know you have been working hard on your current project, and while you are the most brilliant doctor I have ever known, you need to remember to take better care of yourself." 

Angela knows he's right. For the past two months, she has added on a new responsibility onto her shoulders. In addition to tending to the town's medical needs, Angela, with Genji's encouragement, has decided to organize some of her thoughts on general medicine into a publishable article. After seeing an advertisement for calls for papers in one of the medical journals she subscribes to, she fantasized about submitting a proposal to talk at symposium. She had never been able to publish anything during university following news of her parents death and her subsequent decision to drop out of medical school. Never did she have a chance to prove herself to her peers. This would not be a reflection of her old academic research, but a personal exploration into the difficulties and trials of being a general practitioner in a remote area. 

Genji understood her to need to feel intellectually challenged. He agreed this would be good for her, on the condition she take care of herself and promise to ask for help when necessary. 

"I know you will succeed, but you promised to let me help you." 

Angela chuckles to herself, smiles, and moves into his arms. She holds his chin in her palm and stares into his soft brown eyes. 

"Perhaps I shouldn't worry." 

"Save the planning and writing for later. You have plenty of time before the deadline. Don't force your work. It will come in time, and when it does, you will be proud of it." 

"You are far too kind." 

She lays a gentle kiss upon his lips, and Genji's cheeks color. She could never tire seeing him this way, blushing and bashful. He humbles her with his devotion, his attention. 

"I have lived here for several years but I admit, I haven't left town often. If it weren't for picnic adventures such as this, I believe I would have forgotten we live in such a beautiful desert." She takes one of his hands and interlaces her fingers with his. "You spoil me." 

"Nonsense, you deserve time for yourself." Genji curls a lock of her blonde hair behind her ear. "You give so much to the community. They can manage for a few hours without their good doctor." 

Angela giggles, falls back onto the blanket, then stretches. She meets his gaze and sighs. "Some peace and quiet is good for me." 

Genji moves to lay beside her. Together, they look up at the blue sky under the shade of a tree. They hold hands and trace each other's skin with their thumbs. 

While they have had time together off and on, business has often interrupted them. Sometimes she was called away for a house call, and sometimes Genji was needed at the metallurgy to help Reinhardt and Torbjorn or to help with some heavy lifting at Lena’s inn. Their relationship has developed over the course of a year. Time spent learning each other's nuances, goals, and dreams. Balancing work and personal time. Adjusting to the demands of the community. There have been bumps in the road, but they have worked through them. Together, they have spent a year growing by letting go of their pasts and paving the way for their future. 

"When I was a younger man, I thought that leaving Hanamura castle and going into the nearby areas was freedom. I have long since realized that I was still a sparrow trapped in a gilded cage." Genji raises his free hand above his face. "Since we moved here, I have felt free. Truly free. It feels good to soar, to be able to choose my own destiny." 

"I know what you mean." Angela leans over him and curls into his arms. Her heart feels full, and it begins to pound hard in her chest when he tilts his head to look at her. Her face burns under the intensity of his gaze. Her pulse quickens. How could anyone as handsome, as funny, and as kind as he look upon her with such reverence? 

Angela chokes up suddenly. Her eyes water, but not from sadness. A confession rests on the tip of her tongue. 

"I... I love you, Genji." 

His eyes widen and his lips part in shock. He bolts upright, mindful of her form against him, but his hold remains firm. Immediately Angela buries her head into his chest, embarrassed by her own uttered words. 

"Angela, ai shiteru," He murmurs into her soft hair. 

Something about those words takes her breath away. She leans back and raises a brow. 

Before she can speak, he whispers into her ear, “It means I love you.” 

She blushes and grips his shirt tighter. 

“I have never loved anyone as I have loved you. You are so special Angela, a treasure, a blessing I never thought I would find in America… but here we are. You make me so happy.” He chuckles sheepishly. “What do you love about me most, Angela?”

Angela can’t help but grin. “I think it’s your smile that I love most. You have a rather impish grin, but when you smile…” she trails, too shy to finish her thought. _When you smile, Genji, I melt._ “What is it about me that you love most? If it's not too difficult...”

“Difficult?” He laughs. “It’s not difficult at all. But if I _must_ choose only one then I shall pick your laugh. I cherish it.” He scratches his neck. “My poor brother has to listen to me practicing my jokes that I intend to tell you. I enjoy making you laugh.” 

“No wonder your brother rolls his eyes every time you tell a clever one.” 

“He’s heard them all.” 

They settle beside one another, appreciating the calm silence that falls. Angela rests her head against his collarbone while Genji lays his head against hers. He runs his fingers through her hair, smoothing down wispy blonde strands. Angela could spend the rest of their afternoon here, like this, holding one another… but suddenly, she finds herself wanting _more._

Angela raises her head and steals a kiss, surprising him. He returns her kiss, soft, sweet, but Angela eggs him on. She presses herself against his body and situates herself in his lap, straddling his thighs. She runs her fingers up and down his chest, skimming the buttons of his white shirt. Genji tilts his head, deepening their kiss, his tongue parting her lips. He tastes like the sour nectarines they shared for lunch. 

They explore each others mouths, exchanging warm breath in the shade of the tree, but it does not quench Angela’s sudden thirst. Her heart races in her chest and her head feels dizzy. Her wandering palms roam over his shirt, feeling the firmness of his muscles underneath. Slowly, however, Angela trails her fingers lower and lower, until they pass the buckle of his belt while they kiss. Genji does not stop her. With this permission, Angela then presses her palm against the bulge in his trousers. 

Genji gasps and leans back to look into her wide blue eyes. “A-Angela…” 

“I want you, Genji.” She glances away and curls a strand of her hair behind her ear. “All of you. I want _this._ ” She grinds her palm against him, blushing sheepishly, “I know you and I have seen one another naked, and we have touched one another, but…” She raises her hand to cup his cheek, traces her thumb along the outline of his lips, and stares into his brown eyes. “We have been together for almost a year now, can you believe that? And you have let me set our pace… but I want you to know, unequivocally, Genji, that I want there to be no barriers between us. I would like to know all of you, as I would like for you to know all of me.” She looks at him from beneath her lashes. “Have your way with me, my sparrow.” 

Genji’s eyes widen as he listens to her. He turns as red as her, and for a few moments, he gapes, absolutely dumbstruck by her confession. Then, he collects himself and gives her one of his winning, devilish smiles. He wraps an arm around her waist and takes her wandering hand by the wrist. 

He leans close and keeps his gaze focused upon her. He moves her hand over his clothed cock, allowing her to feel its full size in her palm. He lowers his voice, balancing his tone as if it rests on the edge his blade. “I intend to ravish you.” 

“Yes,” she mutters without hesitation. 

“Are you okay with doing this here, now?” He asks. “Or would you rather we head back to town?” 

“No, I…” Angela shakes her head quickly. The moment they had back to town, they will have to go their separate ways to continue their work until they meet again later in the evening. Angela doesn’t want to worry about the town’s health just yet. She wants Genji, and she wants-- _needs_ \--him now. 

Genji raises his lips to her ear. He takes the lobe in his teeth and then chuckles. “You will have to speak _much_ louder than that if you want my cock inside you, do you understand?”

Angela shudders. Good God, does the man know what kind of effect he has on her? 

“Y-Yes, Genji, I do.” 

“Good.” He smirks. “Because I intend to worship you as I have long desired and make you scream.” 

As they begin to undress one another like they have so many times before, Angela can’t believe this is happening. Kissing and engaging in healthy amounts of foreplay is one thing, but this… this will be far more intimate. With Genji there has been nothing but firsts, and she has seen firsthand how he is an attentive lover. They have certainly never done this outside of her bedroom, and now here they are, in the middle of the Mojave on a picnic blanket. Her thoughts crash together, blurring as the thrill of the moment takes over. 

Angela takes off her sandals, and then Genji unbuttons her yellow jumper, pulls it off her body, and then helps her take off the mauve undershirt, leaving her in nothing but her white undergarments. All he has managed to let her remove of his clothes is his shirt, which lays strewn over the picnic basket. At first, Angela feels very exposed despite being clothed, but then, as Genji reaches out to fondle her covered breasts, pleasure shoots down to her core. 

Genji begins to kiss from her earlobe down her jaw to her neck, where he lingers. “Touch yourself while I do this,” he tells in between powerful kisses that will surely leave marks. “On the outside.” 

Angela swallows thickly and licks her dry lips. She already feels a sweat forming on her back, from not only the heat but from his erotic command. She lowers her trembling hand down between her legs and then begins to touch herself through her panties. They have done something similar to this in the past, where Genji helped give her a hands-on anatomy lesson. She has come to learn more about her body with his guidance--what feels good, what doesn’t, how to not feel so shy about it. Of course, Angela knew what intercourse entailed; she learned about reproduction during her schooling and from her own mother. But Genji’s personal experience in these matters far surpassed her own. He did not mind teaching her in the slightest; in fact, she knows he has enjoyed her education in such matters thoroughly. 

Genji’s hot mouth on her neck sends shivers down her spine and only makes her feel wetter. He draws his fingers around her clothed nipples, hardening their peaks, and then he bends down and takes one into his mouth, teasing her. 

“Please...” 

He obliges her by reaching behind and unclasping her brassiere. He adds it to the clothing pile and then draws back in order to look at her. 

Angela blushes deeply, her cheeks prickling with sensation. Genji looks upon her with hunger in his eyes. 

“You have the world’s most perfect breasts,” he whispers while cupping each in his hand. “And I could die a happy man knowing I have the honor of seeing them.” 

Angela moans and her finger strokes herself harder, circling her pearl faster. She feels as taut as a stretched wire as he takes one into his mouth. Genji sucks on her nipple and circles his tongue around it, wetting it thoroughly. His teeth brush against the peak, tugging on it gently, She doesn’t know how much more of this she can take. Her touch begins to make her thighs tremble, and her finger becomes drenched. 

“G-Genji…” 

“Don’t stop. Keep touching yourself until you cum.” 

Angela leans forward to stare down at him as he scatters kisses across her bare chest. He plays with her breast, alternating between squeezing them together and caressing them. He flicks her nipples with his forefingers and pinches them between two fingers. Each flutter of touches sends sparks between them, and Angela finds herself hurtling towards her first orgasm. She gasps and rubs her pulsing pearl through her climax, her body stiffening momentarily. 

Afterward, Genji rubs her back and helps her come down from the powerful sensations. When Angela recovers, he guides her back down onto the blanket and then kisses her hard. He covers her body with his own and grinds his hips down, allowing her to feel his full length. 

“How do you feel?” He asks when he pulls away. 

“Wonderful.”

“It wasn’t too bold of me to ask you to do that, right?” 

“N-No, I…” She rubs her thighs together and exhales deeply. “I really enjoyed you taking charge.” 

Genji raises a brow in amusement. “Is that so?” He smirks and begins to pepper kisses down her torso. When he reaches the waistband of her white panties, he raises his head to meet her gaze. 

“I would like to try something new, Angela, if you will allow me the pleasure.” 

“Of course.” She sits up on her elbows. “But what about you?” She timidly asks, gesturing towards him. 

“Believe me, Angela, what I’m about to do to you is something I have wanted to do for months. I promise I will get as much of a thrill out of this as I hope you will, too.” 

Angela shudders in anticipation. She runs a hand through her hair and licks her lips. 

“Lay back. Make yourself comfortable. When you’re ready, spread your legs.” 

Angela blinks down at him in disbelief, and all Genji offers is a playful wink. She settles back down against the blanket and then spreads her legs slowly. Despite obeying his request, he makes her wait, leaving her on the brink of suspense.

Then, moments later, Genji begins to lay gentle kisses from her knee moving upwards, slowly. Each feather-light kiss makes her heart stutter, and then, over the sound of the breeze rustling through the tree’s branches, she hears murmured words of affection. Some in English, some in Japanese. He explores each of her legs, one at a time. He finds the old scar on her right knee from her days rough-housing as a little girl. He finds the beauty mark she’s embarrassed of on her left inner thigh. His lips linger upon the bare skin as he approaches the apex of her legs, making her breath hitch. 

Then, after minutes of teasing her, Genji touches her core with his forefinger. 

“My, my. You’re soaked.” 

Angela’s cheeks burn, and yet she’s further aroused by his observation. 

“I told you I needed you terribly.” 

Genji laughs, his laughter playful and airy. He keeps his caress light, brief, drawing out her ache, perhaps for his own satisfaction. Angela begins to writhe beneath him, desperate for his touch. 

“Please…” 

Finally, Genji acquiesces. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and pulls her panties off her body. Angela does not close her legs once completely bare before him. He grasps her thighs and spreads her wider while his gaze bores down upon her, leaving her breathless. The anticipation brews inside of her, as wild as a storm, and she feels as if she’s about to teeter off the edge. 

“You are so beautiful,” Genji sighs. “I want to show you how much I love you. Watch me as I do this.” 

Angela sits up on her elbows again and watches him breathlessly as he bends down and trails kisses from her stomach down her abdomen. Then, as Genji runs his fingers through her light curls, Angela suddenly understands what he intends to do. 

“I want there to never be doubt, dearest. I want to worship you like the angel you are…” 

Genji spreads her folds with two fingers, and then, with his eyes focused on hers, he drags his tongue up the length of her core. He does this, over and over, tasting her for the first time most intimately. 

Angela’s head lulls back. “Oh Gott, Genji…”

He pulls her body closer and buries himself between her thighs, exploring her with his tongue. He laps at her folds, varying between using the full flatness of his tongue or only the tip around her throbbing pearl. 

Pleasure ripples through Angela in strong waves. Her lips part in heavy breaths, her heart thudding loudly in her ears. His name slips past her lips more times than she can count, his kisses so powerful she loses all awareness of everything around her. The only person that matters in this moment is Genji Shimada, the man she loves, the man who makes her feel so wanted, so desirable, so incredibly attractive with the intensity of his lingering gaze. Angela reaches out and grabs a fistful of his black hair, holding onto him for leverage as he slips one finger inside of her. Her head falls back, her elbows give out, and then she’s flat on her back, tugging on his hair, pulling him closer. 

With his hot mouth and fingers alone, he makes love to her, whispering sweet-nothings between her thighs. The sensations overwhelm Angela, rupturing her ability to think of anything but Genji. Her back arches, her thighs buckle, and she gives herself so wholly to him, so consumed with the power of her second climax she shatters before him. 

Afterward, Angela tries to catch her breath and still her racing heart. She lays limp on the blanket, pressing her palm to her warm forehead. Genji moves up her body to rest beside her. He cups her cheek and presses a tender, slow kiss to her lips. Tasting herself upon him, perhaps, is one of the most wanton experiences they have ever shared. 

When Genji leans away, Angela draws her finger along his arm’s green and yellow dragon tattoo. She feels raised flesh--lines of scars from his youth training with a sword. He looks upon her with wonder in his eyes, humbling her. Genji makes her feel so attractive, so special, so… _adventurous._ Being here with him out in the desert landscape makes her feel like one of the women from the novels they have read together. Years ago, if someone would have told her she would one day be with a man as handsome, kind, and loving as Genji Shimada, she would have thought them foolish. 

He calls her his angel, but truly, Angela is the one who feels blessed--and she intends to show him.

Angela sits up and rolls them, pushing Genji onto his back. She moves over him, straddles his waist, and winks. 

“My turn.” 

“As you wish.” 

Genji props his head with an arm and strokes her thigh with his other hand while watching her unbuckle his belt. Angela can feel him, hard beneath her, and though Genji’s patience has been remarkable, she can see the cracks in his playful demeanor. Beneath the surface, he’s pacing, reaching his breaking point as she slowly grinds against him. Seeing his eyes close, hearing him gasp under her leaves her breathless. She wants to see him come apart. 

Angela unfastens his trousers, reaches down, and frees his cock. Then, they remove the rest of his clothes until he lies naked underneath her. His physique has always been a marvel to her. Toned, lithe legs. Sculpted abdomen. Powerful biceps that can hold her body up with one arm. What she wouldn’t give to be pinned against a wall, their bed… Her cheeks burn and she finds herself aching for him, desperately. 

“I need you, Genji… I-I want you inside of me.” 

Genji doesn’t hesitate. He sits up, with an arm wrapped around her waist, and reaches for his trousers to fish into his pockets. He pulls out a tin that Angela recognizes immediately--how could anyone forget the gaudy image of a smirking man adjusting his velvet red bow-tie. _Romeos._

“Do you think Shakespeare himself would have found it humorous how civilized society is making use of one of his most famous characters?” 

Genji smirks. “I think he’d feel rather pleased with himself.” 

They’ve talked about this. Intercourse. Angela wanted to prepare for this moment months ago. How thankful she is for scientific advancements of this variety… 

Once the condom is securely on, Genji lays her down against the disheveled blanket once more. They share a look. Unspoken words pass between them. Genji needs no direction; he knows what she wants. During breathy kisses, he gently nudges her legs apart and settles between them. 

Angela clenches and unclenches her fists. She knows the anatomical procedure. She knows what to expect on paper, but experience remains another matter. She tells herself to relax, over and over, until her head begins to spin. 

“Relax, Angela. Breathe.” 

Angela opens her eyes. When had she closed them? She blushes in embarrassment. After all that posturing about being ready for this, wanting for this moment at long last, her nerves dare to ruin everything they have worked up to. 

Then, Genji presses his thumb between her folds, stroking rhythmically. Her distracting thoughts screech to a halt. 

“Look at me, Angela,” Genji says, his voice firm. 

Angela’s wide eyes flash back to meet his. She swallows thickly, burning hot beneath his gaze. 

“Let everything else go. Be here, in this moment, with me.” 

“I’m sorry, I… You know how my mind can be.” 

“I know, and I love it, every part of you.” He smiles softly, and then bends down to kiss her. 

All thoughts melt away when he kisses her. There’s something about him, something about the way he takes all her worries away. 

“I’ll go slow,” he whispers against her lips, “tell me to stop if it becomes too much.” 

Angela takes a deep breath and nods. Her arms wrap around his chest, fingers splaying against his back. As Genji begins to guide himself slowly into her, he captures her mouth, swallowing her moan. He presses his weight into her, sinking down, filling her inch by inch until sheathed to the hilt. 

Their kiss breaks, and they share hot breath while staring into each other’s eyes. Genji brushes a loose strand of blonde hair out of her face and cups her cheek. Sweat has formed on their brows. Joined like this, so intimately close, there are no barriers between them. Hearts laid bare before one another. 

Genji presses his forehead against hers and his eyes flash downward, then back to her. Angela understands the unspoken question, and she nods. It’s all the permission he needs to begin moving. He slides all the way out, and the tip of his cock brushes against something inside of her that makes her writhe beneath him. He hits it again with a thrust, grunting, and then again, and again, pushing them both towards blissful oblivion. She clutches onto him, digs her nails into his skin, and wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him closer and deeper. 

“Genji! Oh Gott--” 

She moans, suddenly incoherent as he plays with one of her breasts, squeezing it and drawing it into his mouth. He smothers her with kisses, his lips seemingly everywhere at once while slamming into her. 

“G-Genji, I… I’m…” 

“I know, Angela,” he groans. He grabs one of her legs and lifts it over his shoulder to change the angle of his thrusts, making Angela’s toes curl. “You feel amazing.” 

Genji quickens his pace, slamming into her harder and faster. It’s too much for Angela. Pleasure ripples throughout her body, and she cries out softly, for only him to hear. She tightens all around him like a vice, and Angela watches him come apart. 

“Oh my God, Angela…” 

Genji holds her by the hip with bruising firmness, and raggedly thrusts into her, pushing them to ride their climaxes to completion. His breath comes quickly and harshly in staccato beats. He slumps forward, balancing his weight with one arm. He pulls out of her slowly and then rolls off of her. 

Afterward, Angela feels hot and lightheaded, as if she’s about to faint. Genji offers her their canteen of water. Greedily, she takes it and drinks for several moments. Then, she passes it back with an unsteady hand. He places the canteen by their picnic basket and then pulls her into his arms. He strokes her head and smooths down her wild hair. 

Being in his embrace feels right, safe. Since the first night they slept together in her bed, he has helped ease burdens off of her shoulders and brought light into her world. Angela knows without a doubt that she wants to spend the rest of her life with him. She wants to make a home with him, to make her space theirs, to have the future the characters in their novels have. Her parents were robbed of growing old together. All they ever wanted for her was to be happy. She believes she can fulfill that dream with Genji Shimada. 

“Hya-kko no hāto demo, kimi o aishite iru to iu no wa hyōgen shi tsukusenai,” Angela slowly murmurs against his neck. 

The words cause Genji’s hand to stop moving through her hair. 

In her worry, Angela sits up and frowns. Weeks ago, she had asked Hanzo to help teach her a little Japanese to surprise Genji when the moment felt right. She requested to learn something special, something poetic. Hanzo taught her how to pronounce that phrase. He told her it meant _Even with a hundred hearts, it wouldn't be enough to express the feelings I have for you._

Angela’s cheeks burn in embarrassment. Had he taught her something inappropriate, instead? 

“Did I say that wrong?” She hates how the lump in her throat makes her voice crack. “Does it not… does that not mean what I think it means?” 

“No, no, it’s just…” Genji’s eyes soften. He presses a kiss to her forehead. “Hearing you say that makes me quite happy, my angel.” He smiles in contentment. “You have no idea.” 

“I wanted to learn how to say something in Japanese. I asked Hanzo for help, and he taught me that phrase.” Angela blushes. “However, I would like to learn how to speak it properly, fully. I have picked up some things over the months I have spent with you, but I need formal lessons.” 

Genji laughs. “Only if you promise to teach me German.” 

Angela brightens, her spirits lifted by his playful request. She can’t help but giggle.

“I promise.”

**x X x X x**

Night falls on Twenty-Nine Palms. At the High Noon Saloon, Jesse McCree serves his patrons who have come here to rest and relax after a long summer day. Gabe sits at the counter, sharing good news to him and Hanzo: Hana’s horse is pregnant and will be delivering soon. Ana and Reinhardt enjoy a dinner for two in their favorite window booth, murmuring to themselves. Tonight Lena’s tutoring Fareeha, Hana, and Brigette at the Amari-Wilhelm household. Something about proofreading essays, if he overheard their conversation right (he knows damn well Lena’s the best writer in town). Two out-of-towner’s sit at one of the wooden tables playing cards while enjoying a beer each. Despite the company, it’s a quiet evening. The summer heat has taken it’s toll, taxing the townspeople of their energy. 

All of that changes, however, when Angela and Genji walk into the bar, hand in hand. Jesse only needs to take one look at the two of them to know what’s changed. 

“Well I’ll be damned,” he murmurs. He glances to his right, where Hanzo stands drying cleaned glasses. He nudges him playfully in the ribs. “About time, right?”

Hanzo raises a brow. “Pardon?” 

“C’mon. Do you really not see it?” 

The elder Shimada purses his brows in suspicion and then looks back to his brother. Jesse follows his gaze. 

Gabriel catches on and looks over his shoulder, then snickers. “Thought they’d done that awhile ago.” 

They watch as Genji lifts Angela off of her feet and kisses her, without a care in the world. After, he spins her while they both laugh. Then, he sets her back down, all smiles. Could Hanzo really not see it? 

Angela kisses Genji’s cheek once more and then says her goodbye. Their gaze never strays from one another’s as she begins to walk away, heading back out the paneled doors of the saloon. Neither lets go of each other’s hand until distance pulls them apart. 

“Oh,” Hanzo says quietly “I see.” 

Jesse laughs. “Simple chemistry.” 

Hanzo places the glass down onto the counter and then goes to meet Genji. 

“Hello, Jesse, Gabriel. Ana, Reinhardt.” Genji pauses. “Brother.” 

Jesse watches closely. He can’t imagine what either of them must be thinking. He hopes he’s not about to witness Hanzo begin to lecture Genji, but the elder Shimada surprises him. 

Hanzo places a hand upon Genji’s shoulder and then pulls him close for a tight hug. 

“I am happy for you, Genji. I know you care for her deeply.” 

Jesse notices Genji visibly swallow hard. He knows how rough of a go Hanzo and Genji had it back in Japan. He’s heard Hanzo’s side of the story, at least. He imagines this is all new for them both. 

Genji returns his brother’s embrace. “Thank you for teaching her that phrase. She said it to me earlier.” 

“I have no doubt at all that she means it. Angela is a fine, respectable woman.” 

“It means a lot to hear you say that, anija. Thank you.” 

It almost brings a damn tear to his eye. This is how brothers should be. Supporting and loving one another. His heart fills to the brim with pride. This is good for Hanzo and Genji. This is what he hoped would develop between the brothers once they settled into their new home. As Hanzo and Genji turn to look back at him and Gabriel, Jesse sees the emotion clear upon Hanzo’s face and in his soft smile. Finally, after so much strife, Hanzo has earned his spot at Genji’s side as his brother once more. 

“Well now, I think this calls for a celebration. Next round’s on me. I’ve got some brandy I’ve been saving for a special occasion.” 

Jesse goes to find the special drink in the pantry. When he comes back into the main hall of the saloon, he sees Hanzo has placed six glasses onto the counter. Jesse looks out to his friends who have gathered around Genji and Hanzo and notices the two strangers have left. 

Jesse pours the liquor while trying his best not to laugh at the sight of Reinhardt lifting Genji off his feet to hug him. 

“Congratulations, my friend! Love is a blessing and I am so happy for you and Angela!” 

Ana takes a different approach. She embraces Genji and then sternly tells him, “You better take care of her.” 

Genji scratches his neck and laughs sheepishly. “I will do my best Mrs. Amari!” 

“He will, I believe it,” Reinhardt says, his tone serious despite his cheer. “I think her mother and father would have admired you, Genji. You are a good man. I have known Angela for several years. Few have made her smile as you have.” 

Jesse pours the brandy and then hands out the drinks. “Shame she and everyone else couldn’t be here to celebrate, but I understand. We’ll have to toast again later.” 

“She had a housecall with Amelie at the inn.” 

“Genji and her had sex, Jesse.” Gabriel deadpans. “They didn’t get engaged--” He looks towards Genji. “Right?” 

“ _That_ is a private matter,” Genji says, blushing faintly. 

“Either way, we’ve all known Angela for a long time, and we all have a lot to be thankful for when it comes to her,” Jesse explains. “We’ve all seen how much happier she’s become since you and your brother came to town, Genji, and for that, well that’s more precious than anything on this Earth.” 

Hanzo raises his glass. “To Genji and Angela. May they only know happiness.” 

The toast moves Jesse; he has never felt more proud of Hanzo than in this moment. They have all come so far since rolling into town like lost tumbleweeds caught in the wind. They drink to Angela and Genji, but they save the extra bottle of brandy for another occasion. Jesse has a feeling they’ll be hearing church bells before too long. 

They spend the evening partaking in merriment. They take turns sharing stories, some serious, most humorous. Jesse laughs so hard during one of Ana’s that he snorts alcohol. He doesn’t even mind the burning sensation; he can’t stop laughing, even if he tried. 

Jesse laughter dies when Jack bursts through the paneled saloon doors so hard they clatter against the walls. 

“The inn is on fire!”

With five simple words, the celebratory mood is extinguished. At first, Jesse can’t believe it. The shock of shifting atmospheres leaves him winded. Then, they all rush outside, and the truth is laid bare before them. 

Up the street, Lena’s inn is on fire. Flames have engulfed the wood structure and the two story building has already begun to collapse and cave in upon itself. The windows shatter loudly from the intensity of the flames. From the main road, Jesse sees Torbjorn running towards them with fire-extinguishing equipment.

“We saw the smoke during dinner! We need to work quickly before it spreads!” 

Jesse turns to look at Genji, and he sees the reflection of the burning building in his wide eyes. Both he and Hanzo reach out for him, but Genji eludes their grip and races ahead, towards the fire without hesitation. 

“Genji!” 

Jesse grabs Hanzo before he can chase after. Hanzo struggles, screaming his brother’s name with a wild fury, but Jesse doesn’t let go, even if he knows Hanzo will never forgive him. Running into that fire is suicide. 

“Pull yourself together, Hanzo!” Jack orders, a military man at heart. “I’m sorry, but Genji has made his choice. Our best hope for him and this town is to put out that fire before it spreads.” 

“We have bigger problems. This was arson.” 

All eyes turn to Gabriel, who walks towards the outer wall of the saloon. There, pinned by a knife, is a piece of paper. Hanging from the knife is a familiar necklace. A chill runs down Jesse’s spine. It’s the scarab necklace Ana gifted to Fareeha for her sixteenth birthday. 

Gabriel pulls the knife from the wall, hands the necklace to a paling Ana, who takes it into her hands and holds it with delicate care. 

Before unfolding the paper, another voice shouts to them. 

“They’re gone! They’re gone!” 

From down the town’s main road, Charles limps towards them as fast as he can, his eyes wide in delirious panic. 

“They took them, the girls, they took my Lena, oh God…” 

Jesse feels the tremor in the earth. Terror. The clock keeps ticking. 

Jack grinds his teeth. “Explain, Oxton.” 

It’s like bracing for a train crash. 

Charles sobers in the face of authority. “I saw the fire from the post, I knew Amelie was inside for her appointment with Miss Ziegler. I went to find Lena to tell her, but when I arrived at Ana and Reinhardt’s home, I found the door kicked in. No one was there.” He shudders and runs a hand over his face. “They’re gone.” 

“Did you see anyone, anything at all?” 

“Nothing but horseshoe tracks in the dirt heading south out of town.” 

Reinhardt wraps his arm around Ana, whose face hardens into stone. A darkness fills her eye with something Jesse hasn’t seen before in the older woman--the guise of a woman who would fight the Devil himself to bring back her daughter. After almost dying in a war and losing Fareeha once before, fate has once again decided to confront her deepest fear. Only this time it is not only her burden but her husband’s as well to bring their daughter home and make their family whole once more.

“My Brigitte was there with Fareeha. She…” Torbjorn trails off and stands frozen still, his eye wide. How will he go back home to tell his wife and their other children?

Gabriel and Jack look to one another at the same time in complete disbelief and sadness. Hana is their daughter, their little girl they pulled from the wreckage of a tragedy they had not been able to save her from. Had they saved her from one disaster only to have her fall victim to one far more frightening?

Someone has set fire to the inn and kidnapped three innocent children tonight.

Gabriel’s grip on the note tightens and his expression darkens with murderous intent. He unfolds it and begins to read the contents aloud:

_To the people of Twenty-Nine Palms:_

_You have brought this reckoning upon yourselves. If you ever wish to see your daughters ever again, bring 200,000 dollars to Skull Rock in two days._

_Come unarmed or they will die a slow, painful death at the hands of the Los Muertos gang._

_\-- Senora Scorpion_


	24. Pages of Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With guilt in his heart, Hanzo comes to the clinic to check in on the fire's victims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has read our story and commented on it. We appreciate you all so very much!

Hanzo recognizes the novel the moment he hears the spoken words whispered to his brother Genji. 

“...But though I was so terrified by the idea of the seafaring man with one leg, I was far less afraid of the captain himself than anybody else who knew him. There were nights when he took a deal more rum and water than his head would carry; and then he would sometimes sit and sing his wicked, old, wild sea-songs, minding nobody; but sometimes he would call for glasses round and force all the trembling company to listen to his stories or bear a chorus to his singing. Often I have heard the house shaking with ‘Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum,’ all the neighbours joining in for dear life, with the fear of death upon them, and each singing louder than the other to avoid remark. For in these fits he was the most overriding companion ever known; he would slap his hand on the table for silence all round; he would fly up in a passion of anger at a question, or sometimes because none was put, and so he judged the company was not following his story. Nor would he allow anyone to leave the inn till he had drunk himself sleepy and reeled off to bed…”

Hanzo listens to Angela’s voice as she reads aloud to Genji. After several moments waiting for a pause in the prose, he knocks on the wooden doorframe of the clinic’s surgery. Angela flinches, startled by the sound, and she turns quickly to look at him. 

“I’m sorry.” A wave of guilt washes over Hanzo as he glances towards the small bed where Genji lays, unconscious, healing from his wounds. “I did not mean to interrupt your time reading to him.” 

Angela closes the leather bound book and holds it in her lap. “You didn’t, I...” She leans over Genji to check on his bandages, and then she adjusts the blanket over him. “I needed to pause, anyways.”

Hanzo nods. He stands awkwardly in the doorframe, uncertain and anxious in the face of tragic reality. The events of twenty-seven hours ago (Hanzo has kept track) have shattered whatever peace he had found in Twenty-Nine Palms, let alone America. Not only have innocents been kidnapped by a group of vile criminals, his brother almost perished. 

No, helplessly watching Genji run into a burning building to save the person he loved brought up memories Hanzo had hoped to lock away deep in his heart. In these twenty-seven hours, he has managed to sleep, barely, for only three. In those hours he was haunted with nightmares. Ringing like a deathknell, the Shimada elders demanded Genji’s demise at his hand, ordering him to act in order to protect their well-laid plans for the family business. He dreamed of cutting down his brother with his father’s sword. Over and over, he watched as his brother fall at the hands of family they should have been able to trust. The very prospect of losing Genji reopened wounds he thought had begun to heal. How foolishly Hanzo believed that the days of thinking upon his past sins were over. 

The fire took hours to put out fully. During that time, Genji managed to escape the scorching flames and came out of the building carrying the two unconscious women slung over both shoulders. His clothes were in tatters, his body covered in ash, and his skin was burned and bleeding. When he reached safety and the aid of other townsfolk, he collapsed to his knees, laid the two women down, and fell unconscious himself on the dusty road. Hanzo lost all control over his emotions and only Jesse could console him while others carried his brother away. Hanzo had not even had a chance to tell his brother, perhaps for the last time, that he loved him. 

All three victims to the fire were brought into Angela’s clinic on the bottom floor of her home. From there, Ana was the only one with enough medical familiarity to help treat them. She determined that Angela and Amelie were alive and would recover from smoke inhalation, but Genji needed immediate treatment for second degree burns on his hand, chest, and face. She cleaned his reddened, blistered flesh and then bandaged his body to the best of her abilities. 

Sometime later that evening, Angela regained consciousness. Hanzo and Jesse had been there for Genji’s sake and to explain what happened. 

_There was a fire, Angela, started by Los Muertos gang members, Jesse said. They burned down the inn and kidnapped Lena, Fareeha, Brigitte, and Hana. Amelie’s fine but she’s still unconscious._

Angela bitterly swallowed down the bile in her throat. Months ago, she had told Jack that the Los Muertos gang needed to be handled. Then, with a deep breath, she explained what she remembered. 

_We had just finished Amelie’s appointment when we both smelled smoke and ran for the stairs. They were already damaged. The fire spread so quickly, and Amelie… I had to help protect her airway. We needed to find a new way out, but then Amelie fell unconscious--she couldn’t take any further exposure. I tried to carry her, and I managed temporarily, but then the floor caved in beneath me. After that, I do not remember what happened._

_Ana said you had a gash on your forehead. You must have landed on something and was knocked out._

Then came the question that neither he nor Jesse could answer easily. 

_Where is Genji? Why isn’t Genji here?_

Neither he nor Jesse could tell her at first, but Genji was his brother. It was his responsibility to tell the woman Genji loved what happened to him. 

_My brother… When he saw the inn engulfed in flames, he… he ran into the building to save you both._

Hanzo will never forget the look of agonized horror that crossed her soft face, and the way her eyes watered in guilt and grief.

 _Oh, Gott._ Her voice cracked. There was no point trying to be strong in the face of such a revelation. 

Hanzo could hardly look at her, afraid of falling apart himself. So, Jesse pulled her into a tight hug. 

_But he’s alive, Angela. He’ll pull through, but you gotta be strong for him._

_Where is he?_

_In your infirmary. Unconscious. Burned._ Jesse patted her shoulder and held her steady. _Ana did her best, but you’re the only one who can really help him._

In spite of her own need to recover from the ordeal, Angela went to him immediately and learned of his situation from Ana. There was nothing further she could do in addition to Ana’s treatment. Since then, Angela has not left Genji’s side, even as the rest of the town planned on how to deal with the ransom. 

“Please, sit.” Angela gestures to the other empty chair in the small clinic. “Would you like me to leave so you both can have some privacy?” 

“No, you do not need to leave.” Hanzo pulls up the chair and takes a seat next to Angela at Genji’s bedside. “I came by to tell you that the others have decided our next course of action to retrieve Miss Oxton and the children.” 

Angela nods, but her attention remains focused upon his brother. There are tears in her eyes, but they have not yet fallen. She looks pale, ashen, with rings under her eyes from lack of sleep. Perhaps she too is haunted with guilt and her own fears. To think, only moments before the fire, they had all been celebrating something as innocent as Angela and Genji consummating. He was proud of Genji and in awe of his younger brother’s growth. They had come together in a moment of brotherly love they had not shared it seemed since they were boys. 

Then, the fire started, and Genji risked his life for the woman he loved. As much as it hurt, Hanzo could understand his brother’s position--Angela meant so much to him. To lose her would have shattered Genji. To lose her without even attempting to save her would have broken him so irreparably Hanzo would have been unable to recognize him. 

Hanzo watches as she reaches up to touch her hair, which has now been cut short to just above her shoulders. The fire singed her longer locks, creating an uneven length. Ana fixed it for her.

“I cannot believe this has happened,” Angela begins, breaking their silence. “I feel so responsible.” 

Hanzo purses his brows. “Why do you say that?” 

“You remember when you and Genji first arrived here? I antagonized that Los Muertos lieutenant and his men. I treated them, yes, but I always feared they would come back and act on their threats one day.” 

“If I remember correctly, they harassed Gabriel and Jesse first at the saloon.” 

“I suppose, but those men… I remember, that man... he looked at me and I… I was very angry at them. They knew that.” 

“I injured several of their members myself. If anyone is to blame for this tragedy, that burden falls to me.” 

Angela shakes her head and smiles sadly. “It seems we both have heavy hearts.” 

Hanzo sits back in his chair and runs a hand over his face. His eyes catch a glimpse of the novel resting in Angela’s lap. 

“ _Treasure Island?_ ”

“We were planning on reading through it together. It’s one of my favorite books.” Angela’s pulls the book close to her chest and holds it tight. Hanzo notices tears filling in her eyes. “My father and I used to read this when I was a young girl, every night until we finished. Sometimes he would read to me and I to him. It was how I practiced my English outside of grammar school. Genji said he had read part of it, but he had never finished it before.” 

Hanzo’s heart twists in his chest even further. Angela has lost so much as well. Her mother, her father. Her life ravaged by war. Now, she almost lost the man she loves. 

Anger boils beneath the surface of his skin. Why couldn’t they have prevented this, planned for this? Why hadn’t this town and its people prepared for retaliation? Had they been so naive to think that Los Muertos would never return? And yet, the others do not bear the blame alone. He fought against a quartet of their members--he shamed them, embarrassed them, and won that battle with little trouble. Though those four men had been transferred out of town on a prison train, word travels. A wounded pride festers. Hanzo should have known Los Muertos would return like ravenous wild dogs seeking blood. 

Hanzo has betrayed his brother, Angela, and their family’s memory. Their father would have chastised him and consoled Genji. 

_Your enemies will feign inferiority, encourage your arrogance, and strike when you least expect it, when you are at your weakest. It is thus your duty, Hanzo, to never let the calm of peace blind you of active threats._

“Hanzo?” 

Stirred from his self-flagellation, he turns his head and sees Angela looking at him with bloodshot eyes. 

“Would you like to read to him?” 

The question takes him by surprise. She offers the book, holding it carefully. Without thinking, he takes the worn, well-loved book and stares down at the simple cover. _Treasure Island_ , by Robert Louis Stevenson. He remembers this book well. Genji enjoyed it thoroughly, especially the talk of pirates, treasure hunting, and swashbuckling fights. How had Genji never finished this novel as a boy? Then, the reason dawns on him. 

Long ago when he and Genji were boys, Hanzo used to read to his younger brother at his mother’s encouragement. They used to sit with her underneath the shade of the sakura, reading novels aloud to pass the time between training drills. Hanzo had read about half of the book, but then their mother grew ill. They never picked it up again after she died. He was far too busy studying and training for his future inheritance. 

Now, the opportunity to continue where he left off awaits him. Hanzo can hardly breathe, so paralyzed by the gravity of their situation. The guilt in his heart only seems to suffocate him. Would his brother even be able to hear him, if he read aloud? Would it even aid in his recovery? Would Genji even _want_ him to bother? 

“I think he would truly enjoy hearing you read it to him.” 

“I… I suppose. If you do not--” 

_Knock, knock._

Hanzo and Angela each turn to their attention away from the book in question to the doorway, where Jesse stands with a serious but solemn expression upon his face. 

“Any changes?” 

“None, unfortunately,” Angela explains. She wipes at her eyes and declines the handkerchief Jesse offers her. “However, in his current state, he is stable. He would be experiencing a significant amount of pain if he were awake.” 

“Guess it’s for the best then. Hope he gets better.” Jesse swallows thickly. “He’s got the most compassionate gal waiting for him and a loyal brother watchin’ over him till he gets back on his feet. He’s strong, he’ll pull through alright.” 

Angela nods, and Hanzo can’t speak, too choked up by his fears. Jesse places a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and Hanzo covers it with his own, needing to touch him. He appreciates the gesture, yearns for it. Jesse’s presence, let alone the sound of his voice, helps tether him to earth, grounding him. If anyone can understand the turmoil in his heart, it’s Jesse--he lost James, after all. 

“I will breathe easier when the people who did this are dead,” Hanzo says coldly.

Jesse squeezes his shoulder. “You and me both.” He takes a deep breath. “The others are finished plannin’ and are gearin’ up.” 

“I hope you do not actually intend on giving them your money…” 

“Don’t plan on it--least, not for keeps. Only a small posse will be headin’ out. You and me, we’re stayin’ behind to keep an eye on town. We don’t want them comin’ back here.” 

It’s clear that talking about this is making Angela unsettled. Hanzo notices her shrink back, moving closer to Genji, as if she’s prepared to defend him with her life. Panic and wide-eyed fear mark her soft features. The implication in Jesse’s words worries him too, but he knows Angela’s scared for the posse. 

“It’s a solid plan, Angela. Ana, Jack, and Reinhardt are going, with Gabe . They’re all old soldiers. They know what they’re doing.” 

Angela scoffs. “No one is invincible.” 

“No, but Los Muertos doesn’t know what kind of hornets nest they’ve kicked. If they think we’re just going to let them get away with this, well, they’re dead _wrong_.” Jesse smiles half-heartedly. “I know you can hold it together, Angela. I heard you were very brave and outspoken when the marshals came.” 

Angela’s face falls. “That was different.” 

“Not entirely. You just need to focus on keepin’ an eye on Genji and taking care of yourself. When Genji wakes up, the first thing he’ll want to see is that pretty smile of yours.” 

She sighs, shakes her head, and mutters to herself in German.

“I’m headin’ back to the saloon. They’re leavin’ at sundown to scope the area out before tomorrow’s early rendez-vous. We’ll talk later, Hanzo.” 

Jesse tips his hat towards the two of them and then leaves. Angela’s gaze remains transfixed upon Genji. When they hear the front door of the clinic shut, Angela folds her arms across her chest, holding herself. 

“I know you need to leave soon to hear what they have planned, but would you mind staying for a little while longer, Hanzo?” 

The book in his hands suddenly feels heavier, and its contents call to him. He stares at Genji’s still, unconscious form, and then to Angela, who looks as though she needs the company. 

Hanzo cracks open the novel where she has left her green ribbon bookmark, his eyes searching the text for where she left off. 

“...His stories were what frightened people worst of all. Dreadful stories they were--about hanging, and walking the plank, and storms at sea, and the Dry Tortugas, and wild deeds and places on the Spanish Main. By his own account he must have lived his life among some of the wickedest men that God ever allowed upon the sea, and the language in which he told these stories shocked our plain country people almost as much as the crimes that he described…”


	25. Count to Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The citizens of Twenty-Nine Palms head out into the desert and meet the ransom rendez-vous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has read and commented! We appreciate all feedback, and we'd love to hear from all of you!

During the Great War, Jack Morrison was known for his calm demeanor under pressure. His shots were steady, his focus unparalleled, even as the entire world seemed to fall apart all around him he had always kept himself together. His fellow soldiers envied his skills with a rifle, and his commanding officer praised him for his bravery. He was “gifted in the art of war,” whatever the Hell that meant, that after the treaties were signed and the American soldiers could finally come home, his superior officer must have put in a good word and he was offered a job. A job he ultimately declined, to the surprise of many. His peers often called him a natural leader, someone to aspire to be when the chips were down. 

What none of them knew was that the Jack Morrison they came to know and admire was only forged through fire. He was a different man before the Great War, and it was from those ashes that formed the Morrison they knew. The scars he bore went deeper than the physical. War had changed him irreversibly, and with that change, came parts of himself that were destroyed permanently. 

He fought in a terrible war for two years, miles away from home. He almost lost his life. Even worse, he almost lost Gabriel. 

Three years ago, Jack took on the role as sheriff of Twenty-Nine Palms after the previous one decided to retire for health reasons. At first he had no desire to become sheriff; he wanted to manage the ranch he and Gabriel built from nothing when they first came to California looking to start anew. He took the job because no one else in town was willing. He didn't want the responsibility, but he wasn’t willing to let his new home fall into disarray. Early on, the job came with its fair share of doubts. He felt torn between his duty to the town and his duties as a husband. Gabriel wasn’t sure about it either, and sometimes the job came between them. It was never anything a long romp in their barn’s hay couldn’t mend.

New residents then came to town, settled, and became some of his closest friends, and he became the leader they needed. In turn, Jack earned their support. The title of sheriff became less of a burden and more of an honor, one he took seriously just as he had with his old regiment during the war. When he and Gabriel found Hana and brought her into their family, he vowed to do everything in his power to keep her safe, to raise her right, and make sure she never experienced the horrors of war that Gabriel and himself had. Hana changed something in him for the better. In becoming a father, he found some part of himself that he thought was lost. An old sense of idealism, of pride, of purpose. He wanted to be someone she could turn to for love and for a sense of security after seeing so much tragedy at a young age. More than anything, Jack hoped Hana could enjoy her childhood in peace, and that against all odds, they could be a happy family. 

Despite his best efforts and an ample supply of good intentions, war has come to Twenty-Nine Palms with the actions of the Los Muertos gang. Jack knows he has failed his community, his husband, his daughter, and his friends. Angela warned him, and he didn't do enough to stop this threat before it reared its head. He should have prepared for this. He should have seen this coming. War never changes, after all. 

But there is no time for self-pity and doubt, not when he can make this right. The children of their town need him. Lena needs him. His daughter needs him. He can’t let them down. 

That thought alone steels Jack’s nerves as he and Ana sit perched behind the cover of tall boulders, long rifles in hand.

“Anything, yet?” He asks. 

Ana doesn’t immediately respond. Her attention remains narrowly focused on what she sees through her scope, staring down where Reinhardt stands with the ransom. Jack doesn’t turn to look at her in the silence that follows. It’s his job to spot her, to look after her in case someone else tries to sneak up on her while she’s watching elsewhere. They’ve set up their roost atop a small rocky hill about a thousand meters away from Skull Rock, a rock face in the middle of Joshua Tree. The pareidolia casts an omen upon the clearing beneath it, a warning for those who wander here. Jack’s never had much of a faith in God, but here, in this area where the Los Muertos gang told them to come in their ransom note, he feels as though they’re in the Devil’s domain. 

They have to remain hidden for now--let the gang think they’re giving in. Let them think they’re beaten into submission. Let them think the fire scorched away all hope. It doesn’t matter how they feel, deep down. They have to see this through, for those innocent lives the Los Muertos Gang dares threaten.

“No,” she finally says. “But they will come.” 

Ana’s tone speaks to her ability to remain calm under pressure. She’s a professional soldier, an exceptional shot, and a deadly sniper. They may have never met during the war, but Jack heard many stories about the famed team of elite Egyptian snipers. He knows what she sacrificed to survive the worst of the conflict, and he knows the kind of perspective she gained. Jack can safely say that there’s no one else he’d rather have at his side watching his back, aside from Gabriel, of course. 

Gabriel’s not here, despite his many protests and the fight that broke out between them. As much as Jack would have wanted him here, war changed him, too. War took strength from his lungs, and it’s a risk Jack’s not willing to take. In the past, much of Jack’s work as sheriff was tame. Scout the area, follow leads from travelers and word that came via telegrams from U. S. Marshals in the region. Gabriel could safely travel with him for those matters, so long as he agreed to take it easy. 

This was not one of those times. Hours ago, back in town, they agreed that Gabriel could watch their horses a safe distance away, when the operation’s finished. Aside from that, he couldn’t go with them into Joshua Tree. It was hard for Jack to look his husband in the eye and tell him that he couldn’t follow, even with Hana’s life on the line. Whatever happens going forward, it’s on Jack alone. That responsibility is both his duty as husband and father and a powerful motivator. He has to make this right. He refuses to let his deepest, darkest nightmare come to fruition any further. 

_Be safe out there, Jack. Bring her home._

“Remember to breathe, Jack.”

He sighs and runs a hand over his face. They have minutes before the contact’s supposed to arrive.

“I don’t know how you do it Ana.” 

“Do what?”

She hasn’t turned to face him, perhaps she can’t. Her focus hasn’t shifted from watching over Reinhardt like his guardian angel. 

“Your husband’s out there. He’s about to meet these people.” He feels silly for asking such an obvious question, something he shouldn’t really be bringing up. He’s not supposed to show cracks in his armor. He’s supposed to be impervious, the impassive, unshaken leader this town. He’s not supposed to be on the brink of having a nervous breakdown. “They have your daughter, Ana.” He takes a deep breath. “How did you do it, during the war?”

“Inhale. Count to four.” She waits, expectantly, and so Jack follows her command. “Exhale. Count to four.” He releases the breath he was holding after four counts. “Do that until your mind is cleared of everything but one thing, your purpose for being out here. The reason why all this matters. You are here because you love them, and you’d do anything to protect them.” 

Jack nods. Of course Ana’s correct. Still, he hears the slight waver in her voice no matter how confident her advice may otherwise lead him to believe. There’s shaky uncertainty and a desperation to make all this right. It’s the same fire burning under their feet. 

“Don’t mistake my calm exterior for indifference Jack. I have lost many things in my life. All that remains of my family is my daughter and husband. I refuse to lose either of them after spending so many years apart.” She takes a deep breath and readjusts her scope. “There can be no doubt in your heart if you only allow yourself to believe in one outcome. The outcome that lets you hold them in your arms once more. Hear their laughter and watch them smile on a warm summer day. That is the _only_ future for old soldiers like us.”  
Jack understands the implication in her words. There’s no alternative. Once you’ve had a taste of what it’s like having a full, happy home, there’s no turning back. That thought alone steels his nerves for what’s to come. He grips his rifle tighter. He wants Los Muertos blood for what they’ve done.

“The Los Muertos contact has arrived. Coming from the south.” 

Jack spares a glance over the boulders, even if there’s little chance of seeing them from their distance properly. “Just one person?” 

“Yes. A woman. She looks to be alone. She does not appear to be armed.” Ana pauses, hesitating on further describing the woman, and Jack looks back to her.

“What is it?”

“I… She is very young. She looks to be hardly older than my Fareeha.” 

Jack speaking his thoughts aloud. It’s no surprise a gang as notorious as Los Muertos would recruit young people into its ranks. 

“Reinhardt has now noticed her too. She’s making her way through the brush.”

Under her breath, Ana says something in Arabic while staring through her scope. He doesn’t know what she said, but if he had to take a guess, he imagines it’s a prayer. Jack readjusts his rifle.

“I do not see anyone else besides them. No sign of the girls.” 

Of course. Why would Los Muertos bring the girls and end this conflict so easily? They expected this. 

“They are talking now. He handed over the sack, and now she’s looking through it. She seems to be rather satisfied.” Ana scoffs. “Alright. Reinhardt has given me the sign. He’s following her through the brush.”

“Time to head out then.” 

Ana scans the horizon one last time with her scoped rifle before they stand from cover. 

Jack closes his eyes, takes a deep breath holding for four counts, and sees them. His husband, Gabe, and Hana seated together on their porch swing. They’re laughing, smiling as Gabe reads to her. He feels like a ghost in his own memories, watching, waiting for it all to shatter. Then, Gabriel looks up at him and grins. 

“It’s clear. Move out.”

Exhale. Count to four. 

Jack opens his eyes. He looks at Ana and feels a sense of determination surge through his veins. 

“Alright. Let’s bring them home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have any questions, comments, or would like to chat, feel free to message my co-author and I on tumblr @ [bamfbugboy](http://bamfbugboy.tumblr.com) and @ [ ijaat!](http://ijaat.tumblr.com) and on twitter at [ GaerwenAurell](https://twitter.com/GaerwenAurell) and [ RangerZath](https://twitter.com/rangerzath)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I Have a Rendez-vous with Death](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8440600) by [bamfbugboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bamfbugboy/pseuds/bamfbugboy)
  * [Young Bucks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8382709) by [CaptainCorgi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainCorgi/pseuds/CaptainCorgi)




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